


sugar and spice and all things nice

by deathsweetqueen



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5 times + 1, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Sex, BAMF Tony Stark, Blow Jobs, Bodyguard Bucky Barnes, Bodyguard Steve Rogers, Bottom Tony Stark, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Emotional and Psychological Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Obadiah Stane is a Dick, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, POV Tony Stark, Past Tony Stark/Tiberius Stone, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potential Personality Disorder, Protective Bucky Barnes, Self-Esteem Issues, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, Tony Stark is Not What He Seems, Tony Stark is a Good CEO, V Polyamory, Violence, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-29 23:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17817479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathsweetqueen/pseuds/deathsweetqueen
Summary: “I don’t like this,” Steve mutters to him, as he shifts awkwardly on his feet in the lounge of Tony Stark’s absurdly large Malibu mansion.Bucky sighs and resists the urge to roll his eyes. This isn’t the first time (and it certainly won’t be the last) that Steve has expressed that very sentiment, and while Bucky also recognises the futility and drawbacks to this particular job, it’s a job,it’s their joband it puts money in their bank account, which is something that Bucky won’t turn his back to.“I just don’t understand why someone like Tony Stark needs a bodyguard,” Steve complains, quietly. “Some spoilt little rich boy, so full of himself that he thinks the whole world is out to get him?”“Shut up, or you’re going to get us fired,” Bucky hisses.Steve shakes his head. “All I’m saying is that I don’t want to have to spend the foreseeable future looking after some dolled-up, greedy prep school reject.”Or, alternatively, five times that Tony Stark surprised Steve and Bucky, and one time they didn’t really care.





	sugar and spice and all things nice

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my entry for the winterironshield bang, which I had an absolute blast writing. It's a bodyguard AU, with no powers, but Bucky is still the Winter Soldier, so I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> I'd like to thank my absolutely amazing artist, [empty-crayon-box](http://empty-crayon-box.tumblr.com), for giving this work the most amazing piece of art I've ever seen, which can be found [here](http://empty-crayon-box.tumblr.com/post/182852951464/sugar-and-spice-and-all-things-nice-by).
> 
> I'd also like to thank my amazing beta, [Skye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skye_wyr/pseuds/Skye_wyr)!

**1.**

“I don’t like this,” Steve mutters to him, as he shifts awkwardly on his feet in the lounge of Tony Stark’s absurdly large Malibu mansion.

Bucky sighs and resists the urge to roll his eyes. This isn’t the first time (and it certainly won’t be the last) that Steve has expressed that particular sentiment, and while Bucky also recognises the futility and drawbacks to this particular job, it’s a job, _it’s their job_ , and it puts money in their bank account, which is something that Bucky won’t turn his back on.

“I just don’t understand why someone like Tony Stark needs a bodyguard,” Steve complains, quietly. “Some spoilt little rich boy, so full of himself that he thinks the whole world is out to get him?”

“Shut up, or you’re going to get us fired,” Bucky hisses.

Steve shakes his head. “All I’m saying is that I don’t want to have to spend the foreseeable future looking after some dolled-up, greedy prep school reject.”

“Yeah,” Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’ve made that pretty clear. Now, let it go, Stevie, or find us another gig that pays us this well.”

“Fine,” Steve mutters. “I just want the record to reflect that I’m not fuckin’ happy about this.”

Bucky slumps forward. _This is going to be a long gig._

A harried Miss Potts, Mr Stark’s PA, climbs up the staircase, strands of strawberry-blonde hair falling out of the neat little bun at the nape of her neck.

“Mr Stark will be right up,” she reassures, pulling herself into some semblance of order.

Bucky looks her over. _Poor thing_ , he can’t help but think.

With everything he’s heard of Tony Stark and his particular brand of rich people crazy, he can imagine that being his PA is no easy feat.

Steve smiles, all nice-guy charm. “That’s alright, Miss Potts. We’re in no hurry here.”

Bucky knows that Steve’s seething on the inside.

Five minutes pass and Tony Stark is still a no-show.

Bucky’s beginning to think that maybe Steve was right about this gig; it’s on the tip of his tongue to fake an emergency with his prosthetic and get the hell out of dodge.

Miss Pott’s face soon contorts with an expression of annoyance and she blows out a sigh of frustration.

“I am _so_ sorry about this,” she says, wearily. “But, to be honest, if you’re going to be Mr Stark’s bodyguards, you’ll probably have to get used to this. Frankly, it’s good that there’s two of you.” She jokes, weakly.

Bucky doesn’t need to turn to know that Steve’s smile, if he’s even smiling, is tight, as if he’s biting back a thousand different unfriendly things that he could say about their new boss.

Finally, Miss Potts apparently gets fed up with Mr Stark’s absence, so she throws her hands up in the air, muttering something under her breath, and stalks her way down the staircase into what Bucky assumes is Mr Stark’s lair.

“Dear God in Heaven, Pepper,” he hears Mr Stark say, dramatically. “Stop hounding me! I’ll come up when I damn well want to come up.”

Bucky can practically feel Steve bristling beside him.

“She’s only doin’ her job,” Steve growls. “Why’s he talkin’ t’her like that?”

“ _Let it go_ ,” Bucky hisses.

Miss Potts, once again, emerges from the staircase, her face visibly flushed, but vibrating with triumph, joined by a young man, in his mid-to-late twenties, if Bucky’s guess is anything to go by, stumbles up after her.

“Now that we’re all here,” Miss Potts says, sternly, shooting the young man a pointed look. “Let’s dispense with the introductions, shall we?”

The young man rolls his eyes and runs his hands through soft, fluffy hair, his eyes zeroing in on him and Steve with dizzying focus, his whiskey-brown eyes like sharp pinpricks.

Miss Potts stares at the young man for a moment, clearly hoping for something before giving him an exasperated look when she doesn’t get what she wants from him.

“Fine,” she grits out. “I’ll do it myself.”

The young man has the nerve to grin at her.

“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes, I’d like to introduce you to Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, Head of Research and Development, Chairman of the Board of Directors, and the bane of my existence.”

_No fucking way._

This mouthy little half-pint, in his grease-streaked band shirt, sneakers and jeans, hair a complete mess, with the beginnings of a goatee growing on his face, can’t be Tony fucking Stark.

“Wow, Pep, you always say such sweet things to me,” Mr Stark says, dryly.

“ _You’re_ Tony Stark?” Steve blurts out the exact same thing Bucky was thinking, but had enough tact not to say out loud.

Bucky resist the urge to face-palm.

Miss Potts snorts, her lips twitching.

Bucky stares at Mr Stark, uneasily; he looks like a worn-out indie kid in that getup, but he’s still their boss, and Steve’s mouth has a tendency to get them in trouble, ever since they were kids and Steve didn’t have the body fat to put his money where his giant fucking mouth was.

But all Mr Stark does is raise an eyebrow and throw out his arms. “Sorry to disappoint,” he drawls.

Steve flushes red, all the way down to his neck.

“Now, let’s just get some formalities sorted out, and then I really need to go and pick some things up from the office. Obadiah’s been bugging me all morning.” Miss Potts rolls her eyes. “I’ve already taken them through a walk through around the mansion; they know where they’re allowed to go and where they’re not allowed to go, under pain of miserable torture and death, as you told me to tell them. They’ve been emailed a copy of your schedule for the next week, and been warned that you change half of the things on there at the last minute. They come highly recommended, so there shouldn’t be any problems. Unless, gentlemen, you have any questions that I can answer for you before I leave?” She looks at them, expectantly.

Bucky doesn’t trust Steve to open his mouth without wanting to make Mr Stark punch him, so he talks for both of them.

“No, thank you, Miss Potts,” he reassures. “I’m sure if we have any questions, Mr Stark will be able to answer them for us.”

Miss Potts huffs. “Good luck with that,” she mutters. “And good luck with him.”

“I heard that; you are so fired,” Mr Stark hisses.

For a brief moment, Bucky is alarmed, something akin to dread sinking into his stomach. Beside him, he knows Steve is about to jump down their new boss’ throat for his unjust, undeserved dismissal of a woman who was just trying to do her job, or whatever particular brand of social justice warrioring that he can bring up today.

But it all fades away when Miss Potts laughs and asks Mr Stark to tell her his social security number and Mr Stark completely forgets the eight digits after the first one.

“Will that be all, Mr Stark?” Miss Potts asks, somewhat mockingly, in Bucky’s opinion, at least.

“That will be all, Miss Potts. Now, get lost.”

Miss Potts nods at him and Steve, before sauntering out of the mansion on her six-inch heels, leaving the two of them standing awkwardly in the lounge as Mr Stark eyes them with no amount of warm, kind feelings.

“Okay, so here’s the thing. I don’t actually want a bodyguard, let alone two who look like they just jumped off the steroid wagon. So, let’s get some ground rules out of the way. Rule 1: stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours, and that ten grand that was promised you will be twenty and deposited like clockwork in your bank accounts every week. That way, everyone wins and you two just scored like the easiest job on the planet. Capische?”

Steve opens his mouth, but Bucky is so done at this point that he just slams the sharp line of his elbow into Steve’s gut, hearing him wheeze as the blow hits him.

“No can do, boss,” Bucky says, firmly.

Mr Stark’s face flickers with surprise. “Excuse me?” he warns, quietly.

“We have a job to do here,” Bucky explains. “You sourced us and you’re payin’ us to do that job. We aren’t gonna eat up your time and ours by doin’ some half-assed scab job and still take your money for it. That’s not how we roll.”

“But I don’t _want_ a bodyguard,” Mr Stark insists. “Look, my best friend is a total wet blanket and he’s convinced that someone’s going to push me off a cliff one day. I only agreed to any of this because he wouldn’t stop haranguing me. You have any idea what it’s like to be harangued by someone who’s hardly even in the continental US? My way is the only way this works.”

“But you haven’t fired us,” Steve points out. “And until you do, we’re gonna do our jobs.”

Honestly, Bucky doesn’t even think he should talk; all he has to do is shove those behemoth-like shoulders in peoples’ faces and they do exactly what he says.

Mr Stark takes a deep breath and his eyes clench shut, like he’s barely stopping himself from saying something horrible and insulting to them, and when he opens them, there’s a mega-watt smile in place, as well as a secretive glint to his eyes that makes Bucky think that this job isn’t exactly going to bode well for him, or Steve, for that matter.

“Fine, I’ll give you the nickel tour,” he says, warmly.

Bucky’s sure the man’s just screwing with them.

“Miss Potts already showed us around the place,” Steve tells him, quickly.

Tony snorts. “Yeah, I bet she did. But if you’re going to foist yourselves on me, there are some things we need to get straight first.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “J, you introduced yourself yet?”

“Unfortunately, sir, it would appear that Miss Potts forgot.”

The low, very British sounding voice from somewhere in the ceiling makes Bucky and Steve jump, and Bucky’s hand immediately goes to the gun strapped to his hip.

Mr Stark clucks his tongue, but his sharp gaze moves just a little south to where Bucky’s thumbing the rear sight.

“That’s too bad,” he drawls. “J, meet my new bodyguards, Captain Steve Rogers and Sergeant James Barnes.”

Bucky slightly jolts with surprise.

He hadn’t realised that Mr Stark was aware of their full names, considering how much he had made a fuss over having a bodyguard, let alone two, in the first place.

“Sir, I thought you had made your feelings most clear about employing a bodyguard. I am puzzled as to what changed.”

Mr Stark snorts. “I know, right, J?” He shakes his head. “It seems like other people are more in charge of my life than I am,” he says, bitterly.

“It is an unfortunate state of affairs, sir,” the voice soothes.

Mr Stark grins fleetingly. “You always get me, J. Anyway,” he drawls. “Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes, meet JARVIS. J, say hello, would you?”

“Good morning, Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes,” the voice says, politely, but agreeably.

Bucky and Steve exchange a look. The latter’s eyes are just as wide and apprehensive as Bucky imagines his own are.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky manages to wheeze out, staring up at the ceiling. “Where exactly are you?”

For some reason, this makes Mr Stark laugh.

“JARVIS isn’t in the ceiling, Sergeant,” he explains. “He’s my AI, as in, artificial intelligence. He pretty much runs the house, runs how much ever of the company that I or Obie or Pepper don’t, and runs my life – or, at least, he did, until my busybody best friends decided to stick me with the two of you without even asking his permission first.” Mr Stark shakes his head, in mock exasperation. “Doesn’t that just grind your gears, J?”

“Of course, sir. How dare they make unilateral decisions about your safety without securing _my_ permission? It is almost as if they do not respect my right to oversee your affairs,” the voice says, amused. “I apologise if I startled you, Captain, Sergeant. It was not my intention.”

Steve and Bucky exchange another wordless conversation.

Finally, Steve clears his throat and can’t help but look at the ceiling when he addresses the AI. “It’s alright. Uh, now we know,” he says, lamely.

When Bucky looks at Mr Stark, there’s a vivid look of amusement on his faces, which he quickly shakes away once he notices that he’s being watched.

“JARVIS is the be-all and end-all of this house,” Mr Stark deadpans, and Bucky isn’t willing to think he’s lying about this. “If you need anything, if you have any questions, go to him first. Don’t bug me directly. Bug me through JARVIS. He’s already good at it.”

“I thank you for your appreciation, sir,” JARVIS says, dryly.

“You got it, J. Honestly, there isn’t really a nickel tour after introducing you to JARVIS. See those stairs?” Mr Stark points down to the ones he had ascended. “That leads down into my workshop. Well, not directly, of course. There’s a door there. But, _anyway_ , what I mean to say is, don’t go in there, under pain of death. Got it? That’s my zen place and I don’t like people inside.”

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. “If you’re in danger, we need access,” he says, definitively.

Mr Stark matches his posture, stubbornly. “If I’m in danger,” he begins, derisively, like he doesn’t think that it’s even a possibility. “Get JARVIS to talk to me first, and then we’ll see about access.”

“And if JARVIS is compromised?” Bucky points out.

Mr Stark bristles at what Bucky presumes he takes as an insult. “JARVIS can’t be compromised,” he snaps.

“But if he _is_?” Bucky pushes.

“It is a possibility, sir,” JARVIS offers.

Bucky wants to pump his fist in triumph – if they can get the AI on their side, he bets this job will be much easier than it would’ve been ten minutes ago.

Mr Stark immediately scowls. “Fine,” he says, shortly. “I may be tempted to give you an access code. A temporary one that JARVIS or I can decline if you’re just meddling where you’re not supposed to.”

Steve and Bucky exchange another look.

No wonder Sam and Natasha and Clint find their eerie, supernatural connection so unpalatable.

Steve nods. “We can deal with rules. But we need access. And we want to deal with JARVIS on the declining thing.”

Mr Stark places his hands on his hips. “Why?” he demands.

Steve narrows his eyes. “ _Because_ , Mr Stark,” he says with as much scorn that one could possibly insert into a few words. “Something tells me that if we leave it up to you, even if there was some asshole pointing a gun at you inside the workshop, you’d still decline our access inside. So, we’ll take our chances with JARVIS, I think.”

Mr Stark looks at Bucky, helplessly, but is clearly disappointed by the firm look he finds there.

“J? A little help here?”

“In my opinion, sir, I do believe Captain Roger’s compromise is an acceptable one. Should I perceive that they are overstepping their privilege, I will, of course, deny them access. But in circumstances where you are in danger, it would be conducive to my protocols to allow them entrance into your workshop,” JARVIS urges, not-so-subtly.

Finally, Mr Stark sighs and narrows his eyes. “How did you two work my AI over in like twenty minutes? It’s not _fair_ ,” he complains. “Okay, fine. If I must. But, here.”

Mr Stark strides forward, somehow managing to look ten-feet-tall in a ratty shirt and jeans, even though he must be something like half a head shorter than Bucky. He hands Bucky a slim, black credit card.

“Use my card. Order whatever the fuck you want. I doubt I’ll give a damn.”

Bucky must be the worst bodyguard ever, because he can’t help but watch Mr Stark’s ass in those jeans as he walks away.

It is a beautiful ass.

When they hear the hiss of a door shut, once Mr Stark is safely down the stairs and in his workshop, Bucky turns to Steve.

“I want pizza,” he declares.

* * *

 

**2.**

All in all, Steve finds guarding Tony Stark uneventful, at least in a violent sense.

Actually, if he’s giving his honest opinion, it can be quite boring, but for a few exceptional circumstances.

There isn’t as much kicking and punching and shooting and shielding as being a bodyguard should entail, and Steve is starting to miss it. This is the longest he’s gone without a real fight since he was around five years old and tackling some giant bully to get him away from Bucky, and there’s an unpleasant itch beginning to settle in his bones.

Mr Stark stays in his workshop for most of the day, unless Miss Potts shows up to drag him off to a board meeting that he absolutely must attend, if he doesn’t want to break the law, or at the very least, if he doesn’t want to deal with Miss Potts berating him for making her job so much harder.

Frankly, he doesn’t know how someone could be so functionally irresponsible, but then again, Mr Stark does spend all of his time in the workshop. Hell, he barely even comes up to eat or drink anything, and considering his empire hasn’t fallen down around him, he must be doing something right.

Bucky’s been trying to get him to be less judgmental of people, when he doesn’t know them; he thinks this is progress.

In any case, he actually finds himself warming up to his new boss, even with the limited amount of time that he sees the man. Mr Stark isn’t the stuffy, ruthless businessman he’d been expecting when Natasha gave them the call; he’s actually quite charming when he wants to be, quick as a whip and sometimes, if they catch him on a good day, he’s even willing to flop down on the couch beside them and watch a couple of episodes of The Walking Dead and chew on thick, greasy slices of pizza, dripping with cheese and marinara sauce.

It’s the strangest relationship he’s ever had with a boss or a client, but somehow, it’s definitely the most interesting experience he’s had since he’s been stateside. Tony Stark is the sort of man that keeps the people around him on their toes, never knowing what he’s going to do.

After the monotony that’s become of his life since he and Bucky were honourably discharged from the army, he’s starting to welcome the chaos the man brings into their life. They never know what he’s going to do, if he’s going to rig the stove up to serve all of them automatic waffles, which Steve was secretly ecstatic about, or if the washing machine they didn’t even know existed is going to chase them around the mansion and they have to pretend the floor is made of lava, while Mr Stark stands on top of the kitchen tower, screaming _do not shoot my fucking washing machine!_

He thinks Mr Stark is lonely, and that’s why their encounters are either supremely dull, or exceedingly chaotic. Miss Potts only visits infrequently, once in the morning, once in the evening, but she primarily conducts her business from Stark Industries’ headquarters and whenever she is there, there’s always something preoccupying her time, regarding the company, or so he assumes, that she rarely gets a chance to shed her heels, lie down on the couch and watch some awful reality show where the rich women beat on each other with their expensive handbags (Bucky’s eyes lit up when Mr Stark confessed that he actually knew a few of those women, and immediately demanded to be introduced).

But for Miss Potts and Mr Stane, when he decides to grace his godson and boss with his oily presence, Steve thinks that the only people that Mr Stark interacts with on a consistent basis is with himself and Bucky, and well, they’re getting paid an obscene amount of money by the man to sit around and watch television.

No wonder the man’s a misanthropic mess of a person, if the only people he spends time with are people who he dishes out a salary to every month.

In fact, Steve doubts that Mr Stark is even _capable_ of forming a healthy, fulfilling relationship, friendship or anything remotely resembling physical and emotional contact with another human being that produces endorphins, with _anyone_.

Of course, he would soon be proven wrong.

On a bright summer’s day, when Steve and Bucky are lolling about the mansion and Mr Stark is downstairs in his workshop, presumably working to the dissonant sound of heavy metal music which they can hear from all the way in the kitchen, the two bodyguards are snapped out of their decadent lifestyle when they hear the front door slam open with a resounding crash.

Steve and Bucky exchange a concerned look, and when the music doesn’t taper off, they assume Mr Stark hasn’t heard the commotion. Steve signals for Bucky to let him creep out of the kitchen first, and his hands immediately go for the gun strapped to his side, pulling it out of his holster and keeping it stretched out in front of him.

Steve slinks forward, out of the kitchen, around the doorframe, and hears the footfalls of Bucky skulking behind him. The feeling of familiarity settles into his bones like warmth, and he shakes out of a thick, dread-filled haze, as his limbs settle into a rhythm that he remembers well.

If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine they’re infiltrating some terrorist base, and Bucky’s watching his six, as he always is.

They decide to confront the intruder, head on, by emerging from the lounge area, which thins out into the entrance hall, where the intruder must still be lingering, considering Steve hasn’t heard anything beyond the first crash of the door. When they do prowl inside, as quiet as a mouse, they spot their first glimpse of the intruder: it’s a young, dark-skinned man, with hair closely shorn to his scalp, in Air Force service dress, a smooth blend of blue-grey and Wedgwood blue, with his back to them, while he rummages through a stack of papers on the table beside the door.

“Hands in the air,” Steve doesn’t hesitate to fling out, sharply, holding out his gun.

The man turns around, slowly, almost comically, revealing a bemused, exasperated expression, and a very handsome face, sharp features and dark, almost black eyes.

“Hands in the air, dirtbag.” Bucky backs him up immediately, shouldering him.

The man raises an eyebrow. “Dirtbag, seriously?”

“What part of hands in the air do you _not_ understand?” Steve demands.

The man’s eyes narrow. “You’re the bodyguards, huh. He’s been whinging about you, non-stop. But at least you’re on top of this shit. You’re just pointing the gun at the wrong guy.”

Steve falters, before shaking his head, his arm turning to stone. “I’m not going to ask you again,” he snaps.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

Steve wonders when he became so sloppy that he couldn’t even notice a civilian creeping up behind two seasoned, decorated soldiers.

He knows it’s a bad idea, but he turns nonetheless, the same time that Bucky does as well, only to find Mr Stark standing behind them, hands on his hips, dressed in jeans and a black tank top that shows slivers of tanned, lean-muscled skin that leaves heat curling low in Steve’s belly, something that Steve shouldn’t be feeling, not towards his boss, and not towards someone whose existence he thoroughly disapproves of (or so he tells himself).

Mr Stark taps his foot, impatiently. “Well?” he demands. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“He… broke in,” Steve says, lamely.

Mr Stark raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that?” he says, slowly.

“Well, the door slammed open, and JARVIS didn’t tell us anything; what were we supposed to think?” he says, defensively.

Mr Stark sighs. “J, any particular reason why you didn’t tell them about Rhodey?”

“Yeah, JARVIS, you couldn’t have told us that this was Mr Stark’s buddy?” Bucky hisses, almost offended that their new AI friend had betrayed them so quickly.

There is a telling pause.

“I thought it would be amusing, sir,” JARVIS replies, guiltily.

Mr Stark groans. “For fuck’s sake, J.”

Bucky turns to Steve. “What the fuck is going on here? Do _you_ know what’s going on here?” he demands.

“No clue,” Steve sighs.

Mr Stark rolls his eyes. “Get a grip, drama queens.” He shakes his head. “J, while I admire your sense of humour, especially considering I wrote your incredibly complex coding, I don’t think it was cool to mess with the corporate samurai over here, okay.”

“Very well,” JARVIS says, smoothly. “I apologise if my actions resulted in any offence, Colonel Rhodes, Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes.”

Steve exchanges a look with Bucky, who has exactly the same bewildered look on his face that he imagines he has as well.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, hesitantly. “Just, uh, don’t do it again?”

“He won’t,” Mr Stark reassures. “Will you, J?”

“I will not,” JARVIS agrees. “Once again, if I may offer my apologies.”

“Anyway, I should probably do introductions, huh?” Mr Stark muses. “Captain Steve Rogers, Sergeant Bucky Barnes, I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, affectionately known as Rhodey or _honeybear_ , but only _I_ can call him _honeybear_ , understood?” he says, sternly.

Steve and Bucky immediately nod. “Understood.”

Mr Stark smiles, lazily.

His cock stirs at the sight.

_Fuck, I am so fucked._

“Good,” he says, pleasantly. “Rhodey, I’m not even going to bother to introduce you to my new bodyguards because we all know this is your fault.”

Colonel Rhodes rolls his eyes, a glint of amusement showing in the lines of his face.

“Now, enough of all of this, hug me, honeybear.”

Much to Steve’s eternal bewilderment, Mr Stark actually makes _grabby-hands_ at the man still standing in the doorway, who rolls his eyes and strides into the lounge area. When he’s within reaching distance of Mr Stark, he seizes the shorter, younger man, pulling him into a tight embrace to the point that he’s literally lifting Mr Stark off his feet, while the man kicks aimlessly in the air.

Colonel Rhodes and Mr Stark sway from side to side, before the colonel abruptly drops him back down to the ground. He ruffles the Mr Stark’s hair, despite the man’s many protests, which makes him sound like a teenager, especially with the lovesick, almost reverent look in his eyes when he ducks the arm that comes for him, presumably to wrap him in a headlock.

Huh, so much for not being able to form a healthy, fulfilling relationship or friendship with anyone.

When Colonel Rhodes turns his dark eyes onto Steve and Bucky, Steve feels the need to look down at his feet and shift awkwardly, torn between maintaining his stoic presence and saluting to a higher rank.

“I’d ask how it’s been working for this terror, but I think I can guess for myself.”

“Hey!” Mr Stark exclaims in protest. “I am a fucking delight,” he sniffs, haughtily.

Colonel Rhodes snorts. “You must be confusing yourself with a Tony Stark from another universe, ‘cause I have no memory of you _ever_ being a delight.”

Mr Stark makes a noise of offence. “You come into _my_ house, and you insult _me_. Honeybear, this is just too much for me to bear. What will I ever do now?”

“God,” Colonel Rhodes laughs brightly. “And you called _them_ drama queens.”

Mr Stark huffs. “I am _not_ a drama queen,” he insists, almost whinging.

“Really?” Colonel Rhodes says, sceptically. “So, why are they still calling you Mr Stark?”

Mr Stark actually flushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was waiting to see how long it’d take for them to get sick of it, honestly.”

“Wait, you _don’t_ want us to call you Mr Stark?” Bucky queries, almost offended.

Mr Stark narrows his eyes. “I’m in my twenties, not in my seventies,” he says, blithely. “You can call me Tony. In fact, I insist on it.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell us that in the beginning?”

“Because,” Mr Stark shrugs. “I thought it would be funny; you both got this little twitch in your jaw whenever you called me Mr Stark. I recognise it: it’s called a fundamental disdain for anything to do with authority. It’s okay, you’re in good company here,” he says, cheerfully.

Steve baulks a little at that, his mouth gaping open like a fish as he struggles to keep up with what Tony just said. 

“Mr Stark-” he begins, somewhat lamely.

“Tony,” Mr Stark – or Steve supposes, _Tony_ – corrects. “It’s all good, Captain, Sergeant. Rhodey has a key to the place, so he just comes and goes as he pleases. Don’t worry about him. If he wanted to kill me, he had plenty of chances when I was a drunk fourteen-year-old at MIT.”

“I could’ve strangled him, and everyone would’ve thought he just choked on his own vomit while he was sleeping,” Colonel Rhodes agrees.

Frankly, Steve is a little creeped out by how deeply Colonel Rhodes has thought about murdering his friend when he was just a teenager, but he finds himself enamoured by the apple-sweet look in his boss’s eyes when he looks up at the striking figure of Colonel Rhodes, matched in the other man’s eyes, who looks down at Steve’s boss so fondly that his heart could burst open with the feeling.

If Colonel Rhodes – honest, kind, level-headed and an honourable, decorated soldier and hero – looks at Tony Stark like _that_ , the man can’t possibly be the warmongering, stuck-up, self-aggrandising monster everyone whispers about.

Then again, they do say love is blind.

“I can’t believe you and Pepper conspired behind my back to get me bodyguards _I don’t want_ ,” Tony berates Colonel Rhodes, who rolls his eyes.

“Look, genius, last month, you got two-hundred death threats and most of them weren’t even from pissed-off men and women who you _declined_ to have sex with. Three months ago, there was that guy that tried to shoot you outside the Bel-Air hotel because you fired him for using SI’s resources to do illegal human experimentation, remember? Ergo, you get a bodyguard.”

“But I don’t _want_ one,” Tony all but whines.

“Too bad, so sad,” Colonel Rhodes mocks, gleefully, much like a taunting older brother.

Tony continues with his pleading, leading Colonel Rhodes away and presumably to his workshop, after a few hasty goodbyes to him and Bucky by both of them, and Steve and Bucky just stare right after them, the adrenaline that had swelled not quite willing to sink just yet.

 _Huh_ , maybe love isn’t blind after all.

* * *

 

**3.**

Tony considers himself blessed with the eye-candy that his bodyguards portray.

Captain Rogers is a delicious hunk of a man, with surfer-blond hair and striking blue eyes, towering over the average man with his giant muscles and more than ample height. He has broad _everything_ , shoulders and chest and arms and thighs and calves, except where his chest tapers off into a tiny, well-built waist that doesn’t look like it should logically hold up the bulk of his torso but somehow does, and does immeasurably perfectly.

Sergeant Barnes, similar but still somehow different, is clearly the image behind the whole _tall, dark and handsome_ adagio. He’s definitely tall, lither made than his companion, with an olive-painted complexion, but still having major, impressive muscles of his own. His hands aren’t giant as Captain Roger’s; instead, they’re more like Tony’s own piano fingers, slim and lean and long and a quick search through JARVIS into the army database regales him with Sergeant Barnes’ sniper exploits, which makes absolute sense to Tony after a moment’s deliberation.

And they actually take their jobs very seriously, which Tony wasn’t really expecting.

It’s a bit jarring, honestly.

His only experiences with bodyguards were the ones who turned into a soft puddle of goo when handed a platinum credit card, and preferred to spend their time, while being paid an exorbitant amount of money, ordering greasy comfort food and binge-watching some show or another on his giant television.

Steve and Bucky still do that, but only after they’ve thoroughly checked the perimeter of his mansion at least six times a day, and they always invite him to join them, always make him an extra grilled cheese when they make one for themselves, always save him a few slices of pizza, and there’s always coffee waiting for him on the kitchen counter when he deigns to emerge from his workshop around midday.

They’re still surprised by him, though.

Frankly, it’s a little adorable.

And it happens more than they would like, or so he assumes.

One day, he’s at Stark Industries, striding through the maze of corridors, with Steve and Bucky dutifully following him, even though the latter likes to crack jokes whenever he can, amidst the stern disapproval of the former, who’s as professional as ever (Tony can’t help but wonder if it gets exhausting, having to be the perfect soldier constantly; surely it can’t be fun). When he comes down his private lift and emerges into the lobby, there’s a gaggle of school children in the centre, lifting up their little heads and staring at his building with undisguised awe.

Tony really shouldn’t linger. He’s trying to escape a board meeting before Pepper realises that he isn’t going to show up, and he doesn’t particularly like the idea of explaining why he doesn’t want to be sitting at that conference table with old, white, homophobic men who either look down at him for being pansexual and Latino and not his father, even though he’s made Stark Industries into something that his father could never have managed, or think they can bend him over the table and fuck him because apparently he’s free for use, as long as he can get an orgasm out of it.

But finally, he can’t help himself.

He finds himself sauntering over to them, despite himself and despite the surprise of his two bodyguards, whose eyes go wide with shock before settling into an expression of warmth that curls into the spaces between each of his ribs. He turns his head, quickly, because that feeling is very dangerous, and he needs to stop looking at these men, however beautiful and fierce they may be, like they could be his one day, like they could ever want to be his.

He joins their little gathering, abruptly, and honestly, he shouldn’t be as amused as he is by the deer-caught-in-headlights look on Rachel’s face, as she stammers through introductions (she was not expecting him to know her name, but JARVIS included the field trip from some primary school in Queens in his daily announcements this morning, like he’s a ten-year-old listening to the PA in school).

Is he that much of a dick that his employees either think of him staring down at him from some high castle, or they think he’s so full himself that he wouldn’t actually know their names?

The children, of course, bless them, have no idea who he is. But for one little boy, who looks at him wide-eyed, with a mop of messy brown hair.

When Rachel leads the kids away, the boy determinedly stays behind and plucks up enough courage to pad over to him and tug on the hem of his suit jacket.

Tony grins down at him. “Hey, kid.”

The boy blinks. “Are you Tony Stark?” he asks, his voice hushed like he can’t believe he’s actually saying those words out loud.

Tony nods.

“Wow,” he breathes. “Is DUM-E here?” he asks, excitedly.

Tony jolts, his eyebrows rising. “You know about DUM-E?” he wonders, sceptically.

The boy nods fervently. “Uh-huh, I sawed the newspaper clipping of you two. I tried to read the paper thing, but there’s still some words I didn’ understand.” He pouts like a six-year-old should be able to read the doctoral thesis he did on learning AIs.

Tony’s lips twitch.

“That’s okay, kid. When I was your age, I wouldn’t have been able to understand them either,” he says, commiserating.

The boy scowls. “I don’t believe you. You’re the smartest person ever,” he says, defiantly. He falters. “Except for my aunt and uncle, but they’re a different kind of smart. You’re sciency-smart.”

Tony grins, brightly. “Thanks, kid.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Is DUM-E here?”

Tony sighs. “Sorry, kid. He’s back at home. I don’t like letting him go anywhere without me. He’s sort of a troublemaker.”

The boy makes a shocked sound. “Is he really?”

“Oh, yeah, puts motor oil in my smoothie, throws my screws all over the workshop.”

The boy giggles. “That’s funny.”

“Yeah, he’s a real riot,” Tony says, dryly.

“Peter!”

Both Tony and the boy (or Peter, as it would be) look up, only to find the teacher storming over to him.

“Mr Stark, I’m so sorry,” the teacher quickly apologises. She turns to Peter and immediately starts berating him. “Peter, you know you’re not supposed to leave the group. We were all so worried!”

“It’s my fault,” Tony says, quickly.

She turns a suspicious eye on him, and he resists the urge to splay out his palms like he has something hiding in them.

“Peter, here, asked me a question and I couldn’t resist having a conversation with him. He’s a real science whiz.” Tony smiles down at Peter, who beams.

The teacher softens and her lips twitch. “He sure is,” she says, fondly, staring down at the little boy. “We think he might go to Midtown School of Science and Technology one day.”

“That’s a good school,” Tony approves. “He’ll do good there, but he has a lot of natural talent. Who knows, Peter? Maybe one day you’ll work for Stark Industries!”

“That would be so much fun! Could I make a DUM-E?” Peter gushes.

“If you want,” Tony agrees, the weight in his chest lighter than it’s been in years.

“I’m really sorry, Mr Stark,” the teacher interjects. “We really do need to be going. We need to be back at the school in an hour.”

“Of course.” Tony takes a step back.

“Say goodbye to Mr Stark, Peter,” the teacher advises, gently, taking Peter’s hand.

“Bye, Mr Stark!” the boy waves, fiercely, throwing his whole body into it. “I hope I get to meet DUM-E one day! But I don’t think I want to drink one of his smoothies,” he says, doubtfully.

“I’ll make sure he gives you a motor oil free one,” Tony reassures.

Peter cheers and lets his teacher drag him away, still waving all the way until he moves out of sight.

When he turns around, a smile still playing on his lips, he’s a little taken aback by the odd look on his bodyguards’ faces, like they don’t know what to make of him, with the new information presented to them. That same feeling, like they’re peeling the skin off his bones to see what he is on the inside, returns and he resists the urge to dance on his feet, all awkward.

He finally sniffs, haughtily. “Let’s go before Pepper finds us and makes me go to that meeting.”

He doesn’t even wait for them to answer before he’s turning on his feet and hurrying for the nearest exit.

He can almost hear the click of six-inch heels behind him.

* * *

And they have a predilection for saving him from all the crazies in the world.

One night, he decides to cut loose and hit a nightclub which all of his rich, not-so-true friends had been raving about. He’s sitting in one corner of the club, surrounding by pretty women and men he doesn’t know and frankly, doesn’t want to know, so he gets up and walks over to the bar, ordering himself another drink, while another, completely full tumbler of whiskey sits on the table he had just vacated, and invites the pretty, intellectually-stimulating psychiatrist ordering herself a Cosmopolitan to join them because he’s always on for fun cognitive science talk. When he returns, he spies the full glass of whiskey he had unfortunately abandoned and when he picks it up to drink, a big, deft hand wraps around his wrist, halting his progress.

Tony looks up and Bucky’s staring down at him with a grim look.

“What’s wrong?” he asks the sergeant.

“Your drink, Mr Stark,” Bucky replies, steadily. There’s absolutely no tension to him; he’s all loose-limbed and lazy, like he’s talking about the weather. “You don’t want to drink that.”

Tony frowns and moves his eyes from the glass to Bucky’s balmy blue-grey eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Bucky’s gaze edge a little to the right, to where there’s a pretty blonde primly sitting on the edge of the leather couch. Her face grows redder by the second, as her eyes shift from side to side.

Tony realises what’s happened.

There’s no dawning horror, no disbelief, no sick twist to his stomach.

Just quiet resignation.

This isn’t his first time, after all.

Bucky’s eyes turn completely liquid, apple-sweet, and he drags his hand down Tony’s thin wrist, leaving a line of fire in his wake, before his slim fingers pick the glass out of Tony’s palm, deftly.

He doesn’t take his eyes off Tony for one minute, holding his gaze like a taut piano wire, and Tony thinks this is the closest he’s ever felt to anyone for a very long time.

There’s a rumble of sound behind them, and Tony doesn’t want to, but he ultimately twists his head, only to find Steve, grim-faced and bleak, approaching with a large man beside him.

 _The bouncer_ , Tony guesses.

The bouncer escorts the girl out of the club, despite her protests, and Steve and Bucky pull him out of his seat.

“If it’s alright with you, Tony, we were thinking we’d take you home,” Steve says, quietly.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “That’s a little forward of you, don’t you think, Rogers?”

Steve flushes like he’s in middle school, and Tony thinks it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

Bucky laughs, lightly, behind them, one palm on the small of Tony’s back that Tony can feel right through his shirt.

“That’s not what I meant!” Steve protests. “I was just thinking… you’ve had a scare… you probably won’t be feeling like getting completely trashed tonight. I thought- _we_ thought it might be better to take you home after everything, get you sorted out.”

Tony’s lips twitch. “That still somehow sounds like you’re propositioning me,” he says, dryly.

Steve moans in embarrassment. “I’m not propositioning you!”

“Oh, so, you don’t think I’m worth propositioning?” Tony cocks a hip outwards, belligerently.

“No!” Steve exclaims. “I think you’re… you look very… oh, shit,” he groans, hanging his head.

“Okay, Tony,” Bucky says, amused. “Let’s stop teasing Rogers over here. He’s not used to your type of flirting. He might self-destruct.”

Tony watches with humour as Steve glares at Bucky viciously over his head.

“What Steve _means_ to say, doll, is that you’ve just had a shock and a pretty intense experience. It might be better if you call it quits for tonight. We’ll take you back home,” Bucky says, easily, the endearment slipping out just as smooth as honey.

Warmth curls in Tony’s stomach and he hides his face before he does something entirely too embarrassing, like blush his face off.

It wouldn’t do him well to start crushing on his bodyguards, after all.

“Yeah,” Steve says, lamely. “What he said.”

“Well,” Tony sighs. “I guess I shouldn’t ignore the advice of my big, strapping bodyguards.”

Bucky smiles, slowly, almost lasciviously. “You think we’re big and strapping?”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Have you two _seen_ yourselves?” He unashamedly runs his eyes up and down Bucky, who looks like he’s about to preen with the attention.

Steve clears his throat. “Maybe we should get going. I think we’re attracting a following.”

Tony looks around and sees the way the club patrons are surreptitiously looking at them, still dancing, drinking and chatting, probably in an attempt to catch Tony Stark doing something scandal-worthy so that they can take a video and post it on their Facebook accounts.

Or maybe he’s just being a self-absorbed dick and they’re trying to figure out why a girl was frogmarched out of the nightclub, when moments ago, she was having a drink with Tony Stark.

“Fine, if we must,” Tony says, dramatically. “We can leave.”

Bucky snorts. “It’s good you’re thinking so logically, boss.”

Tony shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a wealthy depository of good ideas.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue, but a quick glare from Bucky shuts him up real quick, much to Tony’s amusement.

He bets his deeper-than-seven-circles-of-hell wallet that Steve Roger’s middle name is _fight me_ , and he loves proving it.

His bodyguards lead him to where his car is waiting, and Bucky slides into the driver’s seat, while Steve and Tony climb into the spacious passenger compartment.

When the car starts to roll and the silence in the car becomes thick and congealing, Tony turns to find Steve staring at him, intently, with those baby blues that make him feel like he’s made of bird bones and Steve’s peeling him apart, inch by inch, and not in a fun, sexy way, either.

“What?” he says, almost defensively, resisting the urge to shift in his seat like he’s some awkward teenager.

Steve shakes his head. “Nothing. I’m just… concerned,” he confesses.

Tony frowns. “About what?”

“Well, you were almost roofied in a nightclub, doll,” Bucky explains, peering at the two of them through the rear-view mirror. “That’s enough to fuck with anyone.” His voice lowers, all diaphanous and delicate.

Tony can hear his pulse, a heavy thud, pounding in his ears. “Not me,” he says, wryly.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time, Tony,” Steve says, gently, his eyes almost becoming liquid in a way that makes Tony’s skin itch.

He doesn’t like to be thought of as weak.

He _isn’t_ weak.

“This isn’t about being strong,” he says, sharply. “Look,” he sighs. “If it wasn’t her, it would’ve been someone else,” he explains, tonelessly. “It would’ve been the girl next to her, or the guy next to me. That’s just how it works.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Steve demands, his voice snapping to furious attention. “She could’ve drugged you and stolen your kidneys, or something.”

“I assure you, her plan wasn’t so horror movie as that,” Tony reassures, morbidly. “If I had to hazard a guess, she would’ve likely gotten me drunk enough that I would’ve essentially fallen asleep on the way back to my place, or a hotel suite, or her place. She would’ve gotten me alert enough to get me back to a room and onto a bed. Either, she would’ve fucked me, and it would’ve been her claim to fame, being a notch on Tony Stark’s bedpost, or she would’ve helped herself to money out of my wallet or some of my sperm.”

He watches as Steve’s nose crinkles.

“Your sperm? Really?” Steve asks, incredulously.

“The possibility of eighteen years of child support cheques from Tony Stark is an attractive prospect to a lot of people,” Tony explains.

A rough, angry sound bursts out between Bucky’s teeth, and the car swerves just a little, before he gets it on track.

“That is seriously messed up.”

Tony shrugs. “Honestly, some girl putting something in my drink at a nightclub isn’t the skeeviest thing I’ve seen. Which is sad, actually. My life is pretty fucked up,” he muses. 

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Bucky mutters.

“Well, there was this girl that got me drunk and tied me to her bed, and when I sobered up, she said that our love was foretold for hundreds of years and together, we would somehow spawn Beelzebub to lead all of humanity into a new age of vice and iniquity.”

There’s a heavy pause.

“You’re joking, right?” Steve says, flatly.

Tony snorts. “I wish I was.”

“Tell me she’s in an institution somewhere,” Bucky whines.

Tony shrugs. “Honestly, I have no fucking clue. Pepper stopped her from doing something insane, and dealt with her after that. Pepper’s pretty protective like that; I thought she was going to stab the girl in the eye with her heels. They’re four-inch, you know, and she has like wicked aim.”

It’s one of his favourite things about her.

Only because, to this day, he hasn’t pissed her off enough that she’s thrown one of those hell-shoes at him.

“You got any other horror stories, doll?” Bucky asks, curiously.

“Bucky!” Steve hisses. He shoots Tony a hesitant look, like he’s afraid Tony will be offended by Bucky’s nerve, much to Tony’s amusement. “You can’t say those things.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “I got plenty of ‘em, if you got time,” he challenges.

“We got a long drive ahead of us, doll,” Bucky points out, returning that challenge with just enough gall. “I think we got plenty’a time.”

Tony leans back against the seat. The leather is nice and cool against the nape of his neck, which is uncomfortably hot and already damp with sweat, the alcohol he had already drunk turning his skin rosy warm.

“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” he sighs.

Tony starts regaling the two bodyguards with the shitty things that strangers try to do to him. There are a number of rich widows and widowers, and lonely wives and lonely husbands who corner him in coat closets at galas and stick their hands down his pants without even asking because they think he’s some man whore up for anything and he’s willing to be discreet. There’s an underage boy, around fifteen, the son of one of Tony’s senior management types, at a Stark Industries Christmas party that has red-rimmed eyes and a glass full of something that Tony knows isn’t just Diet Coke, and he slinks right up to Tony, puts his hand on his thigh, hoping that Tony will keep him warm for the night. Tony pushes him away gently, because Tony was that boy once, and he has no interest in being in that boy’s nightmares, no matter how much the boy convinces himself he wants this.

There’s a man at some stupid event, who presses the barrel of a gun against a six-year-old’s head, whose eyes brim with thick tears ( _like little Peter Parker_ , Tony thinks), threatening that he’s absolutely willing to blow the kid’s fucking brains out if Tony doesn’t come with him, because _doesn’t Tony understand, they’re meant to be together_.

That one makes Bucky and Steve’s face contort with revulsion.

He wonders if they’ve finally seen the death and rot and ruin he is on the inside.

He wonders if that casual, kind comradery, that slow, sweet trek they’ve been taking into something more will end now.

It was bound to end at some point.

He’s Tony Stark, after all.

He doesn’t get real happy endings.

“Fucking monster,” Steve mutters under his breath, though, gritting his teeth, his fists clenching against his thighs, as if he’d like nothing more than to wring Tony’s would-be kidnapper’s neck.

“How did you get out of it?” Bucky wonders out loud.

Tony smiles, paper-thin. “I’m good at getting out of tight spots.”

He doesn’t say the innuendo that comes to mind ( _I’m also good at getting into them_ ) – this isn’t the time for it, even though it’s on the tip of his tongue.

Bucky’s gaze is intent on him, and even through the rear-view mirror, Tony feels like his skin is being peeled like bark.

Oh, these men are dangerous.

“You’re used to it, aren’t you?” Steve says, quietly.

Tony shrugs. “Been dealing with it since I was a fourteen-year-old college student at MIT. First time I was invited to a college party, some upperclassmen put something in my soda. Couldn’t drink back then, see,” he explains and then, falters. He looks down at his lap. “I’m glad I had Rhodey back then. He, uh, he really looked out for me. I didn’t have so many friends, but I always had him.”

When he looks up, mentally beating himself up for spilling his guts so easily to men who could shoot him in this car, right now, if they wanted, he’s ashamed to find their eyes soft on him.

It makes something burn in him.

He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like pity, like he’s something pathetic, like he’s made of soft stuff that needs to be petted and mollified, because he’s too fucking weak to handle the shit show that’s been his life so far.

So fucking what.

There are people in this world that have to handle shit that’s way worse than what he has to deal with. So what if people try to drug him, rape him (because he isn’t labouring under any delusions as to why people put roofies in his drink and he wakes up with no recollection of what the hell went on the night before, sometimes naked and handcuffed to a headboard), steal his money, take advantage of him, use him for whatever selfish scheme they dream up.

C’est la vie, after all.

Or more specifically, c’est _sa_ vie. 

He’s never been under the impression that his life is anything to complain about, and frankly, his father had never let him fall under such misconceptions either.

He turns his head.

Maybe this was a mistake.

After all, it doesn’t matter how handsome they are, how much they seem to see _him_ , and not the Merchant of Death, the shallow, stuck-up playboy, the mad genius that the tabloids want him to be.

There’s always something that makes people turn away from him.

Steve and Bucky will find their something, sooner or later, and it’ll be Tony grasping for something that can never be his, waiting out in the cold on his lonesome, because that’s just how his story’s supposed to end.

Tony doesn’t want that. He’s never been the greedy type, and he won’t start now, not with them. It doesn’t matter how attached he already is – _stupid fucking me_.

 _Sometimes, you can really be a fucking idiot, Stark_ , he thinks to himself and rests his forehead on the glass, closing his eyes.

* * *

 

**4.**

Steve hates rich people.

He thinks he’s pretty much made himself clear on that point.

He used to think Tony was part of that crowd, but time taught him a very important lesson about pre-judging someone even before he met them.

He still hates rich people though.

And that becomes pretty much set in stone the night of the Justice Ball.

Steve and Bucky shadow Tony the whole night; they’re the picture of professionalism, even if Steve hates the monkey suits, and he’s pretty sure Bucky hates them just as much. On more than one occasion, Tony catches him tugging at the collar, at his tie, like he’s about moments away from ripping the whole thing off. But it has the added advantage of drawing Tony in, who fixes his collar and tie with an eerie amount of focus, before he releases Steve’s tux with a small smile.

Tony, on the other hand, looks very handsome in his tuxedo. Honestly, Steve’s finding it very hard to keep his eyes off him, and his hands (but no one needs to know about that).

They follow Tony around the giant function room, as he greets everyone with wide, synthetic smiles and an ever-present alcoholic drink in hand. There are a few people who get a little too touchy but a stern look from Steve and Bucky is enough to make them back away slowly, much to Steve’s amusement.

Steve’s decided that he doesn’t like it when people touch Tony, especially without his consent and when he looks so uncomfortable by the prospect.

Bucky can, though.

Bucky’s good people.

Then comes one Tiberius Stone.

Steve wasn’t a sniper like Bucky was in the army, but he has plenty of experience of seeing things that most people don’t, which means he has a great view of the way Tony’s face contorts with just enough fear and rage that makes all the muscles under Steve’s skin tense.

Stone is a handsome enough man and looks exactly like the numerous pictures Steve has seen in the newspapers (and tabloids, not that he would ever admit to perusing those trash rags on occasion), with dark blonde hair like Steve’s and clean-cut grey eyes, a square jaw, and a lean form, wearing a suit that most likely cost a year’s rent of Steve and Bucky’s apartment in Brooklyn, which Tony had kindly paid the lease on for them for the duration of their contract as his bodyguard (but while Steve hasn’t had this particular conversation with Bucky yet, he doesn’t think they’ll be leaving Tony anytime soon).

He slinks forward, all smooth and calculative, like Steve imagines rich people are taught at birth (not like Tony, whose charm and grace make Steve feel like he’s worth something, not like he has to live up to some unattainable standard).

“Marc Anthony,” he murmurs, leaning in and surprisingly planting a kiss on the smooth curve of Tony’s cheekbone (Tony does have excellent bone structure; even Steve’s noticed it, and he’s normally very oblivious to such things).

_Marc Anthony, huh?_

Somehow, Steve doesn’t think this guy is just an acquaintance.

Tony’s answering smile is tight like a piano wire. “Hail Caesar.”

Stone laughs. “You remembered,” he says, fondly.

Clearly, the feeling is not mutual, because Tony looks like he’d like nothing more than to upturn his very colourful drink onto Tiberius Stone’s head.

Steve hopes he does.

He’d be inwardly (and outwardly, if Tony wanted him to) cheering him on.

“How could I forget?” Tony says, dryly.

Tiberius’ calculative smile turns onto Steve and Bucky shouldering Tony, like two stone walls refusing to move.

“And who are these two adorable puppy dogs?” he drawls.

Steve can feel Tony’s spine knotting against his shoulder, but forces himself to ignore how much he wants to bloody his knuckles, preferably on Stone’s face. Beside him, he can feel how rancid Bucky’s anger is as well, matching him emotion for emotion, feeling for feeling, just like he always has.

“My bodyguards,” Tony says, coldly. “Captain Steve Rogers, Sergeant James Barnes, meet my old friend, Tiberius Stone. We went to boarding school together, until I rolled through and moved to MIT.”

Stone’s answering smile could cut like a knife. “Just a friend?” he taunts.

Tony narrows his eyes. “That’s all I intend to introduce you as, Ty.”

Stone hums. “Too bad. Seems like everyone else is filling your dance card these days. No time left for your oldest friend in the world.” He eyes Steve and Bucky, just over Tony’s shoulder, like he simultaneously finds them interesting and wanting.

“You poor thing,” Tony says, flatly.

“I am a poor thing.” Stone laughs. “You’ve completely forgotten me, Marc Anthony.”

Tony’s smile turns softer, sadder. “For good reason, Caesar.”

For one long, terrible second, Steve can see Stone’s face contort with enough violence that he actually thinks Stone will actually lunge for Tony, hit him, if he gets the chance, leading him to take an instinctive step forward, so that he’s standing right next to Tony instead of behind him, ready to shield his charge if required.

But Stone is clearly a great actor, because just as quickly as it appears, the violence fades from his face, and he smiles sweet as sugar.

“I’ve been hearing about this rumour… apparently, you’re having some issues with your board of directors,” he says, casually.

Steve watches as Tony pales, eyes going wide with shock.

“Trying to stop weapons manufacturing, I mean, that’s either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. I’m leaning towards incredibly stupid right now.”

“How the fuck do you know about that?” Tony demands.

Stone grins, quick and sharp. Clearly whatever Tony had said to him was a blow to his ego. 

“Don’t you worry about how I know. It’s a pretty big reach, in my opinion. I mean, Stark Industries has been built on the foundation of weapons manufacturing since your father started the company. Are you sure you want to move away from that? Did you get cold feet already? You’ve been CEO for, what, ten-eleven years now? It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Wow, thanks, Ty. You’re always such a comforting presence.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you’ve always been a little vanilla with this shit; even when we were younger, I always doubted if you’d be able to do what was necessary. Hell, you sure you could even keep SI going _without_ weapons? I mean, what would Howard say? You think he’d be thrilled with you ruining his life’s work?”

Steve sees what Stone is doing, making digs at all the soft spots in Tony’s character he can find: his daddy issues, his self-worth, his doubt, his insecurities, whatever terrible things happened between Tony and Stone when they were younger.

Natasha would call it smart; he just thinks it’s cruel.

He knows, now more than ever, than Tony wants to throw his drink in Tiberius Stone’s face.

He doesn’t know what prompts him, but before he knows what he’s doing, he’s inserting himself between Tony and Stone, acting like a giant steel wall between the two.

“I think we’re done here,” he says, lowly, staring down at Stone with enough warning that he can see the wariness in the man’s eyes.

 _Smart man_.

He turns to Tony, who looks at him surprised.

“Perhaps you’d like to leave now, Mr Stark,” he murmurs.

Tony nods, a little dazed, and slides his hand into the crook of Steve’s elbow, which he offers. Bucky, having no intention of allowing Steve to outdo him with their very intriguing and very handsome boss, holds out his arm on Tony’s other side, so that the man is shielded on all fronts.

Tony lets them lead him away, leaving Tiberius Stone standing alone in the world like he deserves.

But Tony isn’t ready to call it quits just yet.

As they emerge from the benefit hall, Tony spots an older-looking gentleman speaking to a few reporters on the front staircase, just off the red carpet, amidst the camera shutters and flashes, which only grow more boisterous and in-your-face when the press spot Tony.

Tony makes a beeline for this man, dragging Steve and Bucky along, not that either of them would protest if they had a chance and a choice.

By now, they’ve both realised that Tony Stark has the spectacular ability to get caught in trouble wherever he goes.

No wonder the man needs a bodyguard, let alone two.

“Obie,” Tony calls out, as they get closer.

The man cuts off midway through a sentence and turns around, spotting Tony, Steve and Bucky.

A flash of hate flickers onto Obadiah’s Stane’s face, fleeting but so visceral that it’s enough to get Steve’s hackles rising. Unfortunately, the man is clever and skilled enough to hide it behind a mask of geniality, especially when Tony gets close, clearly having learnt to play the long con where his godson is concerned.

Steve has the sudden urge to sweep Tony into his arms and carry him away before this man can do whatever damage Stone hasn’t already done.

“Tony, my boy,” Stane declares, cheerfully. “You leaving already?”

“Obie,” Tony says, his smile tight as he hugs his godfather and COO. “Can we talk?”

“Of course.” Stane turns to the reporters. “If you’ll excuse me, company business. No rest for the wicked, you see.”

 _You got that right_ , Steve thinks, uncharitably.

When Stane pulls Tony side, Steve and Bucky join them. Stane eyes them, suspiciously.

“Shouldn’t we have this talk in private?”

“I trust them,” Tony says, flatly.

Steve goes loose.

“Ty approached me,” Tony tells Stane. “He knew about the meeting with the board. How did he know?”

“Tony-” Stane sighs.

“Do I have to be worried about a leak in senior management?” Tony asks, coldly.

Stane throws his arm around Tony’s shoulders in a way that makes Steve want to fling it off immediately, maybe even push the man down the stairs, because he can see the ice in the man’s eyes.

He doesn’t care who he is to Tony; this man doesn’t mean anything good to their boss.

“Look, Tony, I know after seeing that footage of Gulmira, you got a little emotional-”

“Emotional?” Tony hisses. “There are dead men, women and children in Gulmira because a terrorist group somehow have their hands on _my_ weapons. It’s my _duty_ to investigate what’s going on here, and if our weapons manufacturing is no longer conforming to ethical business practices that I believed it was, then I’ll damn well shut it down.”

“No, you won’t,” Stane says, heavily.

Tony reels back, shocked. “Excuse me?”

“Tony,” Stane murmurs. “I’ve been running this company since longer than you’ve been alive. Did you really think I’d let you tear down decades of my life’s work?”

“Obie,” Tony begins, warily, his brow furrowing.

“Tony, go home,” Stane insists, but it comes out more like a threat than a kind suggestion.

Steve can tell his hold on Tony locks like iron by the way Tony hunches his shoulders, shrinking away a little from his godfather, a man who is slowly, quietly proving to be an enemy.

“Get your head on straight, and be careful how you do things in the future.”

“Or what?” Tony asks, belligerently.

Steve bites back a proud grin; even terrified, betrayed, Tony’s still a fighter.

“Or you won’t like what happens.” Stane shrugs, nonchalantly. “That’s all I can say. Now,” he smiles easy, gentle. “Let’s take a picture.”

Stane displays both of them to the ogling press at the bottom of the red-carpeted staircase, and the flash of the cameras blind Steve, but even through the glare, he can see the pickled, painted smile on Tony’s face, sickle-shaped, while his hands shake. 

Stane pulls away after a few minutes and without one more word to his godson, who is breaking right in front of him, he wanders into the benefit hall.

Steve and Bucky look at each other. They don’t need to be mind readers to know that Tony is _screaming_ on the inside, maybe even sobbing.

But Tony doesn’t falter once; he keeps it together, despite this very terrible cosmic pun he’s found himself in, sauntering down the stairs in a perfect straight line, with his head held up high, like he doesn’t have a care in the world, like his godfather, a man he trusted and loved, hadn’t just slid a knife between his ribs.

No one will ever know how strong Tony Stark is than in this moment.

No one will ever be closer to Tony than in this moment.

No one, but him and Bucky.

It’s their own miserable secret.

It’s Tony’s recycled tragedy.

When they’re in the limousine, driving back to Tony’s mansion, with Happy in the driver’s seat, Steve and Bucky sit beside Tony in the roomy back.

They reach out and take Tony’s hands in theirs, threading their fingers through his.

Tony squeezes back, but he can’t seem to take his eyes off the flurry of stars and lanterns they pass by.

* * *

It’s early the next morning when Steve gets back from his run along the PCH. Dawn hasn’t even fully broken out when he steps through the front door to Tony’s mansion, and he makes a beeline for the kitchen, pulling open the fridge to find a carton of chocolate milk. He pours himself a generous helping into a glass and saunters into the lounge, jumping and almost hitting the ceiling when he finds Tony sitting on the sofa, his legs tucked underneath him with his laptop propped on his lap.

“Uh, what are you doing?” he asks, slowly.

“Hacking,” Tony says, simply. He pats the seat beside him. “Join me.”

“Okay,” Steve says, slowly. “Why are you hacking? More precisely and more importantly, _what_ are you hacking?”

“There’s something dodgy going on in SI, and I’m going to find out what,” Tony murmurs, not taking his eyes off his laptop.

“What makes you think that?”

Tony finally looks up from the laptop and gives him a shady, empty smile, one that pierces all the soft spots inside him.

“Did you not see my COO last night? Tell me that didn’t make you suspicious.”

Steve looks down at his feet, rocking back on his heels. “Uh, it’s not my place to…” he trails off.

“I’m asking you,” Tony interjects, a little coldly, like he’s the dragon bastard boss that he can be. “Let’s call it _offering your professional opinion_.”

“Fine, he was very… shifty,” Steve says, awkwardly. “He made it very clear that you had drop it, or…”

“… bad things would happen?” Tony finishes for him, clenching his fists against his thighs. “Yeah, I got that too.”

Steve sits down on the couch beside Tony, gingerly. “Do you think he’d hurt you?”

Tony rubs his hands over his eyes and leans back against the back of his couch, tipping his head over the edge. “You know what? I don’t fucking know anymore. Before this fucked-up week I’ve been having, I would’ve been 100% sure that Obie wasn’t capable of hurting me, that he wouldn’t dare; I’m family, after all. Now, I’m not so sure. Now, I don’t know what to believe.”

“You are being very open about everything. I’m surprised,” Steve says, his voice treading low.

“Yeah, well, I guess that you two have had the chance to kill me or stab me in the back on numerous occasions since you started working for me,” Tony says, wearily. “And you haven’t, which makes me think you won’t. Either because you feel some stupid sense of loyalty, or because you’re banking on the payday you’re going to get when this shitty contract is over and done with.”

Steve ignores the _shitty contract_ part of what Tony just said (he knows Tony by now; if the man really didn’t want them here, in his home, by his side, the combined forces of good and evil couldn’t stop him from getting rid of them), and instead chooses to focus on the first part.

“Why would it be stupid?” he asks, gently, nudging Tony lightly in the side, making a grin appear, however fleeting it may be.

Steve considers that a win, and plus, he just really likes seeing Tony smile.

Forget butterflies in his stomach, it’s enough to get a stampede going in there.

“Have you seen me?” Tony says, sarcastically, throwing his arms out. “My own godfather might be in the business to ruin me completely, and there are worse crimes out there that I’m hesitating to pin on him because I don’t even want to think he could be capable of something so fucked up. This is a man who helped raise me, who brought me birthday presents when my own father forgot, who helped me pack my shit and move to MIT. Then, there’s Pepper. God knows besides giving her a decent paycheque, I haven’t done much for her. Instead, I’ve actively made her work day more complicated. And Rhodey, who I brought into the SI fold because I was so lonely and desperately wanted to keep the only friend I had. Who knows where he could’ve been in the world without me? So, yeah, it’d be _stupid_ loyalty. In fact, if you were smart, you and Barnes would get the hell out of dodge as soon as possible.”

“Not happening,” Bucky says, breezing in through the lounge and dropping a carton of coffee cups down on the table beside Tony’s laptop, while drinking from his own. “You’re paying the rent on our apartment, remember? We’re sticking out as long as possible.”

“Bucky,” Steve groans.

This is not the way to make Tony trust them.

“Well, it’s nice to know what I’m good for,” Tony says, surprisingly amused.

“You know it, babe,” Bucky hums.

He picks a porcelain cup out of the carton and hands it to Tony.

Tony eyes it carefully. “Nitro cold brew?”

Bucky nods. “As you ordered.”

Tony sniffs, haughtily. “Good boy.”

Steve imagines a scene where he’s kneeling by Tony, with his hand petting through his hair, saying _good boy_ in that beautiful little croon of his, and it’s terrible, he knows, but he’s hard as nails in his sweatpants and he desperately crosses a leg over the other so that neither Tony or Bucky will realise just how much of a degenerate he is.

“And for you.” Bucky hands Steve a cup.

“I just had chocolate milk,” Steve complains.

“Yeah, now have your adult drink,” Bucky orders.

Steve sighs. “Café con leche?”

“You got it,” Bucky agrees.

“Tony’s right.” Steve takes a sip, wincing when he burns his tongue. “You are a good boy.”

Bucky gives a dramatic bow. “I remain at your disposal,” he says, sarcastically.

“We might need to be. Tony needs our help.”

“I never said that,” Tony says, quickly.

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t need to.”

“Look,” Tony slams the laptop closed. “You guys don’t need to get into this. It’s not what you signed up for and it wouldn’t be fair to get you involved.”

“Well, too bad,” Bucky drawls, sinking down on the sofa on the other side of Tony, throwing his arm over the back like he owns the place. “Because we’re getting involved.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “You shouldn’t even know about any of this. I could get in a lot of trouble for even telling you what you already know.”

Steve shrugs. “We’re good at keeping secrets.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Why are you so against letting us help you?”

“I’m trying to protect you! When money’s at stake, people are capable of terrible things!”

“I think you got this whole bodyguard-client arrangement the wrong way around,” Steve says, smugly, which makes Tony’s face blotchy red with anger. “ _We’re_ supposed to protect _you_ , sweetheart.”

Tony scowls. “Do I look like I give a shit about traditional bodyguard-client paradigms? I don’t want you involved. That’s it,” he says, firmly.

“Why?” Steve demands. “You don’t trust us, fine. But if you’re keeping everything to yourself because you think you’ll put us in danger, I hate to break it to you, Tony, but that ship sailed a long fucking time ago.”

Tony opens his mouth, presumably to argue some more, but Bucky cuts him off.

“Why don’t you walk us through it?” he soothes, patiently, placing a hand on Tony’s thigh to calm him down. “We might be able to help. You know, Stevie here is damn good at strategy. And I’m a sniper by profession. I’m good at seeing shit that most people don’t.”

Thank God for Bucky, because Steve isn’t really good at persuading people to do anything. Peggy used to say that he just gets lost on one of his soapboxes and forgets that persuasion requires a little less cold, hard truth and a little more charm and finesse.

“Fine,” Tony says, resigned, the fight going out of him in a heavy swoop that leaves him loose-limbed and tired. “This all started with Gulmira.”

“Gulmira, as in the village in Afghanistan?” Steve clarifies.

Tony nods, stiffly. “Did you see the news a couple of weeks ago, about Gulmira?”

Steve’s brow furrows as he tries to recollect anything he may have seen or heard about Gulmira that would be relevant now, but his mind comes up blank.

He shakes his head.

Tony’s face tightens. “The Ten Rings, you know who they are?”

Steve nods. “They’re a terrorist organisation operating in Afghanistan.”

“Gulmira was taken over by one of the cells,” Tony explains. “Hey, J, can you show the footage relating to Gulmira that was broadcasted a couple of weeks ago?”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS says, smoothly.

The TV flickers, and there’s shaky, grainy footage of an entire village on fire, with women screaming in the background, terrifying images of dead women and children, their corpses piling up on the ground like they’re nothing more than trash, and men with guns and tanks killing everyone in sight.

The footage stills on the sight of a little girl, no older than eight, on the ground, wrapped up haphazardly in a sheet stained with browning blood, her dark hair spilling out into the dirt.

Steve thinks he might throw up.

Tony shuts it off and the silence is deafening.

Sometimes Steve forgets what he remembers from Afghanistan. Then, he sees something like this and it sends him spiralling all over again.

But somehow, despite everything to the contrary clenching inside him, he manages to pull it together.

He looks over at Bucky, who looks like he was peeled to the root just by watching the footage.

“Buck?” he calls out, roughly.

Bucky blinks and then, he’s back, his eyes losing their daze. Tony absentmindedly places a hand on Bucky’s strong thigh, squeezing, or perhaps he knows exactly what he’s doing – by now, Steve would put nothing past Tony.

Bucky clears his throat and looks down at Tony.

“This what get you rolling?” he rumbles.

Tony goes taut. “You didn’t see it, did you?” he wrings his fingers together. “J, roll back to 2:47, would you?”

“As you will, sir,” comes JARVIS’ subdued voice.

The footage rewinds until it stops on a grainy image of a shell that has _Stark Industries_ written across it.

“Uh, Tony,” Bucky begins, edgy.

“I didn’t know,” Tony blurts out, staring at both of them terrified. “No one’s realised, or spotted, rather, the logos on the weapons that the Ten Rings are using in the footage.” He swallows hard. Tony slumps forward, resigned. “I didn’t know. I _swear_. I saw the footage and something in me _died_.”

“So, you went looking,” Steve says, quietly.

“The media or the press haven’t picked up on it yet, thank God, but it’s only a matter of time. They’ll start an inquest into our activities. I might go to jail for this, who knows?” Tony laughs, bitterly. “But I have to own up to it. I have to… _do_ something. I have to figure out what’s going on here, how they ended up with my weapons, and how I can change things.”

“That’s why you approached the board?” Bucky asks.

Tony nods, stiffly. “I wanted to change things. If I’m going to go down for this, fine, I’ll take that. But I don’t want Stark Industries to do this anymore. There are so many people dependent on the livelihood that I provide them with, and I can let them down. I _refuse_ to let them down,” he says, firmly, nodding as if he were trying to convince himself of the fact.

Bucky and Steve exchange a look. It says measures about what they are, who they are and what they see in this man between them. Bucky nods and a knot in Steve’s chest loosens.

Steve places a hand on Tony’s shoulder, while Bucky grips at the hand that’s on his thigh.

“So, where do we begin?” Steve asks, determinedly.

Tony stares at him, and then Bucky in turn, with no small amount of surprise and disbelief. Steve’s heart clenches in his chest, wondering just how many horrible things Tony has come to expect from everyone around them.

“Are you-are you sure?” he stammers. “You don’t have to do anything-”

“Doll,” Bucky cuts him off. “Neither of us would be here still if we didn’t want to be here. You ain’t forcing us into anythin’, got it?”

Tony stares at Bucky for a moment before twisting his head to look at Steve. There’s still disbelief, like he thinks they’re going to run away the second they jump into anything, but it mellows out with each passing moment that Bucky and Steve don’t leave.

Finally, Tony takes a deep breath, settling his hands on his thighs, and opens up his laptop.

“Okay,” he says, his voice steady. “This is a receipt from four months ago, authorising the shipment and subsequent delivery of a considerable number of cases of the new line of assault rifles that I designed to an undisclosed location around the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan. I’m betting those rifles went right into the hands of the Ten Rings. But I never signed off on it. I checked with Pepper, and she corroborated that I never signed off on it.”

Steve looks at Bucky, pointedly, who shrugs.

Steve sighs. He’s not made for things like this.

“Tony, uh, I hate to ask you this, but are you sure that Miss Potts can be trusted.

“Yes,” Tony says, immediately, without a moment’s hesitation.

“But are you _sure_?” Steve pushes.

“Yes,” Tony finally snaps. “Pepper’s been with me for years, since she was a grad student and interning in the accounting department. She wouldn’t even be my PA if she hadn’t tried to pepper-spray my old bodyguards. No, I know what you think, but it would’ve taken a _lot_ of manoeuvring for Pepper to be behind something like this.”

Steve isn’t so convinced, and by the grouchy look on Bucky’s face, he isn’t persuaded either; but this is clearly a touchy topic with Tony that it’s probably in their best interests to put it aside, or Tony might just be tempted to boot them out on their arses.

“Okay, so, what do we do with this receipt?” Steve asks, patiently.

“Well, everything’s digitised now, so I have a timestamp and computer terminal location for when the receipt was made.”

Steve thinks to himself for a moment. “How do Stark Industries employees access the computer terminals? Do they have separate login identification?”

Tony pauses. “They have a username and password keyed into the system.”

“So, can we access records of who accessed that particular terminal that’s listed on the receipt?”

“Good point,” Tony mutters. “Uh, J, you know what to do.”

“Of course, sir.”

The TV flickers briefly before a list of login addresses and timestamps appears on the screen.

“I believe that at the corresponding time that the receipt was created, one particular login identification was in operation, sir,” JARVIS tells them, and a neat yellow highlight strikes through the name in question. “It would appear to be Ms Samantha Carlisle. She works as a Junior Project Manager in the Logistics Division.”

“Can we track her movements after?” Bucky asks, curiously.

JARVIS clearly waits for Tony’s assent.

Tony sighs and leans back. “Yeah, okay, J, go ahead.”

JARVIS steamrolls ahead. “Well, it would seem that Ms Carlisle used her Stark Industries issued mobile phone to make a number of phone calls to Mr Kearson DeWitt, Head of Inventory Management, both before and after the invoice was made.”

Bucky looks thoughtful. “Are they supposed to be in that much contact?”

“They shouldn’t be that closely connected,” Tony says, grimly. “If there was anything that required their collaboration, there should be some kind of record. Fuck it, J, check their emails, see if you find anything suspicious.”

JARVIS returns a minute or two later.

“Sir, there appears to be a number of emails between Ms Carlisle and Mr DeWitt regarding a shipping employee in the Van Nuys warehouse.”

Tony pauses. “You think this guy could be the one sending out the weapons?”

“Shall I check his shipping log, sir?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Tony sighs. “Go ahead, check his shipping manifests.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Did you find anything, JARVIS?” Steve asks, after JARVIS falls silent for a minute or two.

“Yes, it seems that this employee was responsible for a number of shipments that do not reconcile with the authorised shipments that registered in the Stark Industries database, sir. Their identification numbers either do not exist at all or nonsensically refer to shipments of entirely different products that were made decades ago.”

Tony grimaces. “Well, doesn’t that sound suspicious,” he mutters. “Okay, we have a project manager, the head of inventory management and a shipping employee as our main suspects. What d’you two think?”

“We could track their movements?” Steve suggests.

Bucky shakes his head. “That wouldn’t be practical. They probably speak to heaps of people every day, and any one of them could be helping them out.” He pauses. “But could I make a suggestion?” he tentatively raises his hand up like a little shit.

Both Steve and Tony narrow his eyes.

“Are you kidding me with the hand up?” Tony asks, disgusted.

Bucky cracks a smile. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Idiot.”

“Go on.” Tony waves his hand.

“Well, does it make sense that a couple of grunts, no offence, managed to sneak a shitload of weapons to an internationally-known terrorist organisation, without you or anyone else more senior finding out about it?” Bucky points out.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You think someone higher up is helping them?”

Bucky shrugs. “I’m not _thinking_ anything.”

Steve blinks. “To be fair, the amount of collaboration to pretty much commit treason the way they’re doing now, the chances that those three alone would be found out at some point is pretty high, _unless_ there was someone higher up helping them out, or even orchestrating the whole thing.”

Tony leans his head back against the couch, suddenly looking older than his twenty-eight years.

He doesn’t care if he regrets it later, but Steve gives into the urge to run his fingers through Tony’s hair. He waits for the moment where Tony inevitably smacks his hand away and starts shouting at him for inappropriate touching and crossing boundaries that should not be crossed, but he’s pleasantly surprised when, instead, Tony leans into his touch, fine, dark eyelashes fluttering closed over his eyelids. 

When he looks up, Bucky is giving him a knowing look, the smug prick, and it makes Steve flush. It takes him a moment, but he finally withdraws his hand from Tony’s hair, placing it gingerly in his lap, where he’s already hard enough to pound nails.

_Joy._

“So,” Bucky drawls, as if that moment between Steve and Tony hadn’t been charged with tension. “Someone in senior management, then?”

Tony takes a deep breath, a blush still painting his cheekbones. “Seems so.”

* * *

That night, for some reason, both Steve and Bucky are wired.

Later, they’ll think they were lucky.

Come two in the morning or so, they’ve managed to wrangle Tony into bed, alone, just so he gets a break from his near-constant stressing over who in his company could be illegally selling his weapons to terrorists. Finally, the two, unable to sleep themselves, sit in front of the television with a rerun of Mob Wives flickering in the background – Bucky chooses Mob Wives against Real Housewives because according to him, the fights between the women are _more fucked up and twice as funny_.

“You want some coffee, Buck?”

Bucky yawns and tips his head back. “Yeah, sure, Stevie.”

Steve slides to his feet and stretches his arms with a loud crack. “Jesus,” he breathes. “It’s like I can feel my brain cells dying.”

Bucky points his pixie stick at Steve, threateningly. “Don’t knock the crazy bitches.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “God, Bucky, you need a life. Like pronto.”

Bucky snorts. “This coming from the guy who hasn’t gotten laid since Peggy Carter, junior year of high school?”

Steve flushes. “Don’t objectify me, okay,” he huffs. “I am more than a sexual being.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “The perpetual hard-on you have for Tony says differently.”

Steve laughs. “Like you’re so above it? You don’t call him _doll_ just because it makes him blush like a fictional bride on her wedding night.”

Bucky coughs and looks away. “I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about, punk.”

“Yeah, jerk,” Steve laughs. “Sure you don’t.”

“You gonna get me my coffee or not?” Bucky demands.

Steve gives him the finger and walks around the couch towards the kitchen.

He’s in the middle of pouring the coffee from the pot into two mugs when an alarm blares, shrill and splitting, as the room stains red, the colour of ripe blood apples.

“Captain?” JARVIS’ voice is erratic and uneven, crackling at the edges. “There… intruder… mansion. Captain-”

Steve tips his coffee into the sink, the steam bursting out of the metal cavity, as he rushes out of the kitchen, where Bucky is already standing at the front of lounge, the TV still chirping in the background, with a Kalashnikov in his hand, mounted on his shoulder.

“Where’d you get that?” Steve asks, confused.

Bucky shrugs, his shoulders straining with tension. “Was under the couch.”

It takes Steve just a moment to digest the idea that Tony Stark keeps assault rifles under his furniture, before he’s kicking down the La-Z-Boy recliner and snatching up the two handguns strapped to the underside of the seat. He and Bucky take large, single-minded steps until they’re huddled just outside Tony’s shut bedroom door.

“What’s the plan, Cap?” Bucky asks, curiously, slipping into his Winter Soldier persona smoothly, like a slow honey drip.

“If there’s an intruder, they’re coming for Tony,” Steve mutters. “He’s the target, which means we form a defence around him. When they come for him, we subdue them.”

“Just subdue?” Bucky asks, almost disappointed.

Steve feels the exact same way. “The intruder was likely sent by the person or persons organising the trafficking of Tony’s weapons in his company.”

Bucky bites his lip. “You think they’ve figured out Tony’s looking into them?”

“Well, Tony wasn’t exactly subtle when he brought up the idea of stopping weapons manufacturing to the board,” Steve points out, dryly.

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, he’s not exactly the subtle type.” He pauses, staring down at his rifle. “You know, this gun works like it was made for me,” he says, casually. “Already fitted to my specs even before I pulled it from the couch.”

Steve pauses. “Tony must’ve done it.” He looks down at the grip of the gun in his palm. “Yeah, this feels perfect too.”

Bucky waggles his eyebrows. “Our boy takes care of us.”

Steve can’t help but grin. “That he does.”

Bucky eyes the bedroom door, his eyes growing fond. “Let’s not wake him up, huh? He needs his sleep.”

Steve nods. “We can take him on our own.”

Bucky sighs and leans his head against the door. “Still, I’d kill to have Natalia here right about now.”

Steve chuckles. “She’d drop from the ceiling and strangle him with her thighs.”

Bucky pauses. “Now, I’m imagining Tony doing the same move. Okay, not good for my blood pressure right now,” he exhales.

Steve rolls his eyes. He should feel jealous, but there’s nothing but satisfaction settling inside him. “Save the fantasies for the shower, punk.”

Bucky opens his mouth to retort when something in face changes, becomes stern and almost unrelenting, and he holds his hand for Steve to remain silent.

Steve raises his gun, having become quite adept at falling in line with Bucky’s instincts.

Bucky always seems to catch the things that Steve misses and he’s never been more grateful for the fact than in this moment.

The intruder blends well against the shadows against the wall, but they can hear their footsteps well enough. A thin, lithe figure, with dark hair but for a solid silver stripe in the middle, springs at them, her knee pinning Bucky to the wall, while one of her hands swipes for Steve. It’s quick fight, edgy and complicated, but they managed to bear down on her and send her sprawling onto the floor, Bucky’s metal hand pinning her hands behind her back, while Steve goes to search for something to tie her up with.

Steve returns with some rope, and the two of them, with enough finagling, manage to tie her wrists and ankles together, with her lying on the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Bucky runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “What’re we gonna do with her?” he asks, gruffly, a little winded from the altercation.

The door behind them swings open.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Tony demands, storming out of the bedroom in just boxers and sleeping mask hiked over his hair. He baulks a little when he sees the trussed-up form of the intruder on the floor. “Who the hell is this chick? Why is she tied up? Are you guys seriously engaging in kinky bondage play? Without inviting _me_? Why is no one answering my questions?”

Tony looks at them, expectantly, but if Steve is being honest, the multitude of questions, following their brawl with an actual assassin, just makes his head hurt something fierce.

Plus, Tony is so sleep-rumpled and soft that Steve wants to hold him close and usher him away from anything evil, just to keep him safe.

Tony narrows his eyes and taps his foot. “Still waiting over here.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Intruder. Sent to kill you. We stopped her. Did you get the gist of that?”

Tony blinks. “Wow, I must’ve seriously pissed someone off,” he mutters.

Bucky shrugs. “We figured it was whoever was orchestrating the trafficking of your weapons,” he explains, his grip still unrelenting on the assault rifle, like it’s a safety blanket.

Steve knows Bucky better than he knows himself and he knows that his best friend is trapped in a state of oscillation between Bucky Barnes and Winter Soldier.

It won’t be easy to pull him out of it.

Tony makes a face. “Yeah, that makes sense.” He nudges at the intruder with the flat of his heel. “Hey, you, who sent you?”

The intruder spits something insulting in Russian.

Tony simply rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m a filthy American pig. I already knew that. Now, again, who sent you?”

“I won’t tell you!”

Bucky grabs the knot holding the ropes together, pulling the assassin to her feet. “Oh, you will, or you’ll face the business end of my gun, darling,” he murmurs smoothly into the assassin’s ear in fluent Russian.

“I’d like to see you try,” she scoffs in English.

Bucky leans in so that she can see the beast lurking behind his blue-grey eyes. “You know who I am? I’m the Winter Soldier. Now, tell me if you don’t believe I’ll carry out my threat. Who hired you?”

To Steve, Bucky looks an inch away from shaking her like rag doll.

He wonders if he needs to step in.

Then again, this woman can clearly take care of herself and was definitely in the market of killing Tony.

No, he doesn’t think he’ll step in.

The assassin grits her teeth. “Obadiah Stane,” she finally spits out.

Steve rounds on Tony, just in time to watch his heart break so vividly on his face. His eyes are open and blank, his lips pressed into a thin, pale line, and Steve wishes he could kiss the bleakness off his face. Instead, he’ll just have to live with this ache in his chest, as this beautiful man cracks open right in front of him.

It takes him a moment, but Tony’s face smooths out, as if he had grasped at a straw to pull him out of the river, even though something pained still shadows his unbearably brown eyes.

“Tony,” Steve begins.

Tony holds up a hand to stop Steve from continuing. “Don’t worry about it, Steve,” he says, roughly.

“But, Tony-”

“Steve, _please_ ,” Tony practically begs.

Steve’s mouth falls shut, half-heartedly.

In that moment, while Steve’s eyes are so centred on Tony, the ropes split apart around the intruder’s arms and legs and she manages to escape from Bucky’s hold long enough to lunge for Tony. Before Steve or Bucky could stop her, pull her away from their charge, Tony saves himself, grabbing a handgun from Steve and shooting her quick and unceremonious in the head.

For a moment, the air is still in the mansion.

“You don’t really need a bodyguard, do you?” Steve states, lamely.

Tony shrugs. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone,” he says, simply, stiffly, like he’s holding all the torn pieces of himself together before he falls apart. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, this bitch shut down JARVIS and I want to make sure she hasn’t done anything permanent to him.”

Tony doesn’t give them a second glance as he strides away.

Steve doesn’t blame him.

He just wishes he gets the chance to snap Obadiah Stane’s neck himself.

Steve turns around to catch Bucky staring down at the assassin’s dead body, empty-eyed.

“Buck?” Steve places a hand on his shoulder, concerned.

Bucky shrugs it off. “I’ll be fine, Stevie,” he says, shortly. “Now, go look after our boy.”

Steve hesitates, because it’s Bucky and sometimes he thinks Bucky was born with the other half of his soul, but nonetheless follows Tony through the empty corridor, leaving Bucky hovering over yet another pale, numb, cooling corpse.

* * *

The next morning, Tony calls a press conference.

“This morning, Obadiah Stane was arrested by the Federal Bureau of Investigation for the illegal trafficking of arms and treason against our nation,” he says, clearly, standing at the podium, with Steve and Bucky hovering behind him. “This is a great blow to us all, and to me, and a betrayal of the trust that I, my employees and the American public have placed in Stark Industries and Mr Stane. Now, this won’t be known to anyone beyond my board of directors, but there have been discussions amongst us, following the tragedy of Gulmira, to change the direction of Stark Industries. As such, effective immediately, I am shutting down the weapons manufacturing division of Stark Industries.”

The reporters lunge to their feet and start screaming at him, but Tony steps away from the podium, turning his back to them.

Steve and Bucky rush to him, take each of his arms in theirs, and lead him away.

Neither of them mentions the dark circles under Tony’s eyes, how damp and bloodshot they still are, rimed and raw with salt, and may be for the foreseeable future, how he seems to have aged a decade in a single night, or the way his hands shake against their biceps.

That is a secret just for them.

But Steve, Steve will never forget how fierce Tony is today.

Because today is the day that he falls pathetically and unbearably in love with the man.

* * *

 

**5.**

Bucky doesn’t like the way the parasites claw at Tony after Obadiah Stane is put in prison.

The bastard deserves a good, painful, messy death, especially after all the vile shit he spat at Tony on the witness stand, but prison will have to do, unfortunately.

Bucky isn’t like Steve, not really. He doesn’t have some grand desire and a perpetual hard-on for justice and due process. If Tony had asked it of him, he’d have found a way to sneak into Stane’s cell and end it so that the man couldn’t hurt Tony ever again.

But Tony isn’t like that. Tony is a man of second chances and mercy.

Bucky finds that adorable.

He takes advantage of his position as Tony’s bodyguard to _persuade_ some of the more _determined_ parasites to leave him be. Tony says his resting murder face is a thing of beauty, and it makes him preen because _duh, he said he liked my face._

Sometimes, Tony holds his hand, and Steve’s hand, when they go places. Sometimes, he hooks his arms through the crook in their elbows. There are photographs in the tabloids, days later, with Tony wearing sunglasses to hide the pained, dark circles under his eyes, especially after all that mess with Stane, with loud headlines proclaiming that Tony Stark has new boytoys, strong, handsome soldiers just playing the part of his bodyguards; but, in private, they’re just part of his vast harem.

It makes Bucky and Steve laugh, because _ha, they wish, they really wish_.

Tony just quirks his mouth at the pictures, but ultimately apologises and looks away, because tying anyone’s name to Tony utterly fucks up your reputation, right to the very end. It becomes a shadow that never stops following, like the inevitable shade of death. No one should have to pay such an unforgiving, unrelenting price, not for him, anyway. Not after _merchant of death_ has now become a kind term, after what Stane has made him now.

To that, Bucky says: “That’s bullshit, doll.”

It makes his chest hurt how much Tony’s face flickers with surprise.

“It ain’t your fault what Stane did,” he says, vehemently. “You found out that he was doing a lot of shady shit and you stopped it. That’s what matters. You didn’t let the fact that he was your godfather stop you from doing what was right. And you felt some empathy for those people in Gulmira even before you knew who was involved. Doll, it doesn’t make you a monster that you didn’t know what was going on in your company behind your back. It makes you human.”

Tony’s hands shake, visibly, and he clears his throat. When Bucky finally manages to latch onto Tony’s eyes, which he keeps so well hidden from everyone for fear of someone – _anyone_ – seeing something in him that they can use against him later on.

“Can I ask you something a little unprofessional?” Tony asks, all vulnerable and open and hopeful, his voice trembling at the edges.

“Yeah, sure. Always,” Bucky says, bemused.

“Can I get a hug?” he asks, helplessly.

Bucky melts on the inside. He strides over and throws his arms around Tony, so fiercely that he would pull Tony inside him and hold Tony against his bones, against his heart and lungs and everything that makes him Bucky Barnes, just to protect him from the world, from anyone that would hurt him, if he could.

“Thank you,” Tony murmurs, the words muffled against Bucky’s shoulder. He clutches at his back. “Thank you for everything. You and Steve. You really made all of this better.”

* * *

Unfortunately, it all goes downhill from there, for Bucky.

He thinks it started when they stopped that assassin from killing Tony, like a switch he inadvertently turned on, but struggles now to turn off. Looming over that women’s dead body, as she bled out onto Tony’s pristine floor, set free a monster that he had no intention of revisiting.

But fate and karma are complete and utter bitches, and it’s not so easy to cage that monster when it’s out.

First, it gives him nightmares. Brutal, belittling, bloodstained visions of what he’d done and what he could do. The latter is the worst. They all start off unassuming, just an ordinary slice of his life. Sometimes, he’s sitting at Tony’s Brobdingnagian dining table, surrounded by Steve and Tony. It’s everything that he wanted, sitting at this table with the two people that make up his universe now, eating the pancakes that Steve and the automated stove made together, drinking the coffee that Bucky fetched and listening to Tony talk about whatever amazing thing he’s cooking up in that workshop of his. As he said, it starts off all normal, like this could be his life – in fact, he’d give anything for it to be his life.

But then, things slowly start to change. There are flowers on the table that the housekeeper changes every day, without anyone ever knowing of her presence because Tony dislikes strangers in his house (and who could blame him, considering the last stranger in his house tried to kill him and his godfather arranged the hit). Those flowers rot and turn to death right before his eyes. He turns around and Steve is still sitting there, opposite him, but his eyes are blank and wide open, his mouth slack. There’s a slick trail of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth.

“Steve?” he whispers.

As if the strings holding up his body cut, Steve’s body collapses into his plate of still unfinished pancakes with a wet thump. He turns to Tony in horror, only to see him quickly greying as well, ragged cracks cleaving through his skin like he’s made of stone, as he goes pale and numb and the light leaves him completely and for good.

He reaches for the two of them, but they disappear like smoke in front of him, leaving him alone in a crumbling dining room.

Sometimes, the nightmare is of Steve alone, skinny and small yet so vicious, dying in a dirty alley in Brooklyn while some evil bastard beats the shit out of him until his skull hits the pavement and his eyes go pale. Sometimes, he’s bigger, and it’s during the war, while the sky is on fire above them and their ears are ringing, and Steve is shouting at him, when suddenly, something blows up in his face and Steve just turns to ash.

Sometimes, it’s of Tony. Steve and Bucky fail to stop the assassin from sneaking her way into Tony’s room and when they burst inside, the woman is hovering above him and Tony’s throat is open, red spilling out onto his clean, dove-white bedsheets. Sometimes, it’s Tony on the other end of a gun, while a blurry monster lays a threatening hand on a crying child. Tony doesn’t save himself or the child and instead, he falls to the ground, a bullet right between his eyes, covered in blood, and the child soon joins him.

And in each nightmare, at the end, the Winter Soldier appears, with his muzzle and painted eyes and Kalashnikov mounted on a shoulder. He makes his way through the bloody scenes until he comes up behind Bucky and lays a careful hand on his shoulder. It makes him flinch and curl in on himself, the very touch of that monster makes him want to scrub himself clean.

The Soldier is nothing but death and rot and ruin.

Since Bucky can no longer sleep without nightmare after nightmare, he resolves to just not sleep.

It seems like an easy enough decision until it starts eating into his day. When his alarm blares, his eyes are already wide open, and he slips out of the bed and joins Steve in the kitchen. As the day becomes longer and longer, the muscles in his shoulder and ribcage start to ache and the metal arm becomes practically dead weight. Then, the pain receptors go on the fritz and his entire arm feels like it’s trapped between the maws of an animal with a jaw full of sharp, pointed teeth. He could chew that entire side of his body off and it would still hurt less. At first, he’s quiet, but sooner or later, the pain gets to him and something, even stupid, small things, pisses him off. Suddenly, he can taste iron and something rotten in his mouth and it just makes him angrier and angrier until he’s shouting, all ugly and loud, at whomever has the fortune to be on the other end of his mood that day.

Most often, it’s Steve, whose face turns grimmer and grimmer until finally, he slams down whatever it is he’s holding and storms out of the kitchen, moments away from throwing a plate or a glass at Bucky’s head or the wall just to let go of some of his anger. Steve usually gets him back in more subtle ways, like stealing his coffee or having JARVIS block the Real Housewives on the television, so, he knows that Steve can hold his own against Bucky’s terrifying temper nowadays.

The worst, though, is when his anger turns on Tony, who isn’t prepared to deal with any of it. Steve has had years to become desensitised to Bucky’s tempers and episodes, and he’s formed strategies on how to cope and even act against it. But Tony doesn’t have years or strategies, and it shows when Bucky blows up at him for something that he can’t even remember.

All he knows is that it devolves into an insane screaming match between the two of them, for some stupid reason, like leaving the dishes in the sink or not cleaning up after themselves or the music being too loud. Steve earnestly tries to play mediator, but it ends with Bucky shouting, “you’re going to die alone in this house, Tony, so, what’s the point, huh?”.

Promptly, Tony’s face shutters off and he takes an actual step back, as if to ward himself from whatever Bucky would say next. He tries his hardest to pretend that Bucky’s words don’t mean anything to him, that they don’t touch his perfect veneer, Bucky’s sniper gaze doesn’t miss much. He can see that Tony’s eyelashes are wet and something hurt and exhausted comes over him.

Without another word to Bucky, without a scathing remark that could’ve cut Bucky down to his white meat, as he knows Tony is fully capable of, he turns on his feet and walks away, leaving Bucky feeling like a complete and utter prick.

“What?” he demands of Steve, who’s staring at him with that perpetual face of self-righteousness and disappointment that makes him feel three inches tall.

“Nothing.” Steve shakes his head. “Just wondering how long you can keep this up.”

“What?” Bucky snaps.

“Buck,” Steve sighs. “I’m not playin’ this game with you. You know _exactly_ what’s going on here. And you know it can’t last forever, right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Stevie,” he says, defensively. “Stop talkin’ bullshit and say what you mean.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think you really want me to do that, man.”

“Why don’t you try me?” Bucky’s itching for a fight.

“No. I’m gonna check on Tony.”

When Steve leaves, the anger and unrest leave him, like it was the only thing holding up, like he’s nothing more than a heap of bones and flesh, like he’s made of clay that could crack open at any time, his pulse as weak as the patter of a butterfly’s wings.

_Fuck._

* * *

It all comes to a head when Bucky slams a dish into the sink and bites something out at Steve in an ugly tone, rubbing at his shoulder. Steve throws down the tea towel in his hand and storms over to him.

“That’s fuckin’ it,” he mutters and grabs Bucky by his flesh arm, dragging him along.

“What? What the fuck are you doin’? Where are you takin’ me?” Bucky demands.

“Your arm’s hurtin’. I’m takin’ you to see Tony,” Steve tells him, sternly.

“What, why?” Bucky asks, confused, ignoring his real reason for not wanting to see Tony.

He never apologised after their last fight.

Steve stops and stares at him like he’s an idiot (well, he is, but for different reasons). “He’s probably the only one who could fix that thing for you, Buck.”

Bucky holds his metal arm close to his body, like it was a child he was protecting, ignoring the way that the pain flares up hot and shoots right up his arm and down his spine.

“I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” he says, defensively.

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? So, you just knocked it on the wall, did you? Or you just sleep on it funny?”

Bucky scowls. “You ain’t funny, Stevie.”

“Yeah, and you ain’t fooling nobody. Get to the workshop. Now.”

“You askin’ me, or tellin’ me?” Bucky’s still in the mood for a good fight.

“Right now, I’m tellin’ you, ‘cause you don’t seem to want to take care of yourself. So, someone else’s gotta do it for you.”

Bucky scowls. “You ain’t my ma, Steve.”

“Yeah, and you should be so lucky, ‘cause if she were here, she’d have just thumped you and dragged you by the ear anyway. I’m being nice about it. Now, you gonna come with me all peaceful, or do I gotta carry you like you’re my bride?”

Bucky deflates, gritting his teeth when the pain in his body rears its stupid, ugly head and it makes it way too hard to stay his course.

“Save that shit for Tony,” he grumbles instead, and follows along, dutifully.

“You bet I will,” Steve replies, easily, the words not fazing him. “But I’m sure Tony wouldn’t mind either of us treatin’ him like he was our bride. Actually, he would, but not ‘cause he doesn’t want us like that.” he amends, running his hand through his hair.

Bucky stares at him. “And you’re okay with that?” he asks, a little sceptically. “Sharin’ him with me?”

“I’d be sharin’ him with someone whom I’ve shared everythin’ with.” Steve shrugs. “And as long as he wants it, who gives a shit how it happens?” he pauses. “But right now isn’t the best time to have this conversation. Right now, you need to get your arm fixed and you need to talk to Tony, ‘cause I can’t deal with the two of you mopin’ anymore.”

“I’m not fuckin’ mopin’,” Bucky mutters.

“You _are_ ,” Steve insists, rolling his eyes.

They stop at the head of the staircase leading down into Tony’s workshop.

“I’m not goin’ down there,” Bucky says, stubbornly.

“I will _throw_ you down there, you got that?”

“Stevie-”

“Don’t Stevie me, you jerk. You fucked up, we all know it, but Tony ain’t gonna hold that against you. So, go down there, apologise and get your arm looked at,” Steve says, firmly, in his _captain_ voice.

Bucky meets his eyes for a second, intending to fight, but Steve meets him head on, not giving an inch. Finally, Bucky sighs and slumps forward.

When Steve’s got his back up, it takes one savage fucker to beat him down.

“Fine,” Bucky mutters.

Steve’s face breaks out into a sunshine smile. “Great! Now, go.”

Bucky glares at him one last time before descending the steps. He could already hear the loud rock music from down the corridor, and it just makes his ears hurt the closer he gets to the door. He takes a deep breath, ignoring the shaky feeling in his lungs, and raps on the glass with his knuckles.

Tony looks up from his workstation and lifts up his goggles, his hair sticking up adorably. When he sees it’s Bucky waiting on the other side of the glass, his face tightens, and he turns his attention back to whatever he was working on, muttering something that Bucky can’t hear.

“I’m afraid Mr Stark has declined to allow you inside, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky sighs. “Please, J, just tell him I want to talk.”

Clearly, JARVIS passes the message on, but it doesn’t take well, judging by the scowl that forms on Tony’s face.

Now, Bucky could use the access code that was given by Tony and JARVIS when they first started working for Tony, but he has a feeling that would just set him back another thirty steps with Tony. So, he decides to let that idea go.

Bucky rubs his aching shoulder with a grimace and looks down at his feet.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky looks up. “Yeah?”

“Sir would like to know what is wrong with your prosthetic,” JARVIS says, patiently.

Bucky blinks. “How…?”

“Sir has noticed a pattern of behaviour regarding your prosthetic in recent days, and he would like to know what is wrong with it.”

“Oh, uh, it’s on the fritz, I think?” Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “It just feels like heavier than usual, and now the pain receptors are all fucked up and it just hurts.”

Bucky watches as Tony stares at him for a moment, much like he’s considering the best way to cut him open for an autopsy. Ultimately, Tony sighs and the door to the workshop gives away with a hiss, allowing Bucky to enter.

Bucky slips through like a shadow and plasters himself against the glass.

“Hi,” he says, quietly.

“Sit down,” Tony says, coldly.

“Wait,” Bucky interjects. “I can’t.”

“Can’t _what_?”

“I don’t expect you to help me out, Tony, not after what happened,” Bucky mutters.

Tony crosses his arms over his chest. “Why the fuck not?”

“I hurt your feelings, Tony,” Bucky points out. “It wouldn’t be fair to take advantage of you when you’re angry at me.”

Tony snorts. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone used me for tech or labour or cheap repair work. You might as well get your fair share. I mean, after all, I’m just going to die in this house alone. What else do I have to do?”

Bucky flinches. “That’s not it all. In fact, I wouldn’t have even come down here if it weren’t for Stevie sticking his big nose into things that don’ concern him.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “So, you weren’t actually coming down here to apologise to me?”

“No, I _was_!” Bucky insists. “I _am_ sorry, Tony. I was in a shitty mood and I said something that I should never have said. I am so fuckin’ sorry, doll.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “If you were really sorry, why’d it take you so long to come down here?”

“‘Cause I’m a fuckin’ moron?” Bucky offers.

Tony makes a face like he doesn’t completely disagree.

“I really am sorry, Tony, and I’m not just sayin’ that to get you to work on my arm. I should’ve come down earlier, but I didn’t know what to say to you, or how to apologise properly. But I really am sorry.” 

Tony remains silent.

“You want me to get down on my knees?”

“Giving me a blowjob is not going to make me forgive you.”

Bucky grimaces. “That’s not what I meant, but let’s put a pin in that.”

“Let’s put a pin in the fact that you want to give me a blowjob?”

“Yes. Well, no. Look, can I just finish apologisin’?” Bucky asks, rubbing his hand across his face.

“Go ahead.” Tony gestures broadly.

“I was in a shitty mood, and you were a convenient scapegoat for my anger. It’s _not_ fair; it’s _not_ okay, and I can’t say enough that I’m sorry. I understand if you don’t want to forgive. That’s your choice. Just know, I didn’t mean anythin’ that I said. I don’t think you’re going to die alone in this house.” _I want to be there with you, and Stevie wants to be there with you, so there’s no fuckin’ way you’re gonna be alone._ “I just… I’m fuckin’ sorry, Tony. I don’t know what else to say,” he sighs.

When he looks up, Tony is leaning against his workstation, with his arms hanging limply around his sides.

“Tony?” he hazards.

Tony lifts his chin. “You hurt me,” he says, steadily.

Bucky closes his eyes, his lungs constricting under the weight of Tony’s stare. “I know. Fuck, doll, I know and I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

Tony exhales and runs a hand through his hair, pulling off his goggles. “You should come and sit down. I’ll take a look at your arm.”

Bucky slumps forward, unsure of that meant forgiveness or mere acceptance or nothing in particular. Nonetheless, he plods forward, to where Tony swings a dentist chair out of nowhere.

When he catches sight of it, the sage green colour of the leather, he stops in his tracks.

Tony cocks his head. “Is something wrong, Bucky?”

Bucky clears his throat. “Yeah, that chair… it…” he licks his lips. “Could we do it somewhere else? Do I have to sit on that chair?”

Tony frowns. “Uh, yeah, we can do it on the couch over there.” His face goes hot. “Not _it_ , like sex, but your arm. We can work on your arm on the couch. But, uh, what’s wrong with the chair?”

Bucky shrugs, curling in on himself. “It’s just… it reminds me of some pretty shitty stuff,” he explains, tersely.

Tony chews on his lower lip. “Okay,” he drawls. “Just… come here.” He motions Bucky to join him on the couch.

Bucky follows after him, dutifully. He settles on the couch with a wince, when the plates pull and catch at the synthetic sensory neurons, and the spike of pain hurtles up into his shoulder.

Tony softens with concern. “You’re in a lot of pain, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

Bucky nods, stiffly, unable to open his mouth.

Tony exhales. “Okay, let’s deal with this, yeah?”

Bucky nods again.

Tony’s hand hovers in the air for a brief moment, before settling on Bucky’s chest. “Maybe you should lean back? You look like those cables on a bridge, just before they snap. Like in Final Destination 5? God, that movie was shit. But I liked the way it looped back to the original one.”

Bucky inhales. He nods, shakily, and leans back, until the back of his head hits the cool leather.

“Do you want me to give you painkillers?” Tony asks, in a low, rushed voice. “It’ll knock you out. You won’t feel a thing.”

Bucky shakes his head, quickly. “No. _No_. No painkillers. Please, Tony.”

Tony looks like he desperately wants to ask another question, but somehow musters enough self-restraint to keep his mouth shut and nod.

“Okay, so, I’m going to open the plating up, so I can see what’s going on in there, huh?” he asks, gently, like Bucky’s a skittish deer about to run away.

Bucky nods.

Tony runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp, in a slow, deliberate rhythm, that makes all the dark, hollow voices in Bucky’s head shut the fuck up for one goddamn minute, giving him peace that’s been absent in the past week. All the muscles in his body turn slack and he slumps into a loose-limbed, lazy sprawl. The roaring of white noise in his ears and touch of Tony’s fingers in his hair is enough to pull him into a state of dizziness, almost drunkenness, that he doesn’t even realise that Tony’s already opened up the plating of his arm.

When he looks down, in sweet muzzy exhaustion, Tony already has his fingers and screwdrivers knuckle-deep in the insides of his prosthetic, humming the heavy rhythm to a rock song that Bucky barely recognises in his fugue state.

“What’s wrong with it?” he manages to slur.

Tony clucks his tongue. “All the sensory neurons and pain receptors are like twisted together. That’s why you’re in constant pain. Pretty much the prosthetic is recognising _everything_ as pain. It’s fucking shitty workmanship, that’s what it is,” he grumbles in a way that makes him look adorable.

“Can you fix it?” Bucky asks, curiously.

Tony gives him an offended look. “Can I fix it? Can _I_ fix it? Who do you think I am? A moral philosophy professor? Of _course_ , I can fix it.” He rolls his eyes. “ _Can you fix it?_ Honestly.”

Bucky cracks a smile from somewhere, his flesh hand reaching over and gripping Tony’s thigh, over his jeans, almost possessively. Tony absentmindedly pats the back of his head, before returning to the work on his arm. 

“Okay, so, I’m going to disable all the neurons and receptors, okay,” Tony soothes.

Bucky swallows hard. “What’s that goin’ to do?”

“Nothing much. In fact, it’ll pretty much make your arm like dead weight. You won’t feel anything after that, but I just wanted you to be prepared when I switch everything off,” Tony explains, steadily.

Bucky nods, a little shakily, and leans back against the sofa, taking slow, deep breaths despite the knot in his throat.

“Okay, so, here we go.”

Tony twists the metal prod inside the prosthetic and the whirring of the arm goes flat and dead. Bucky chokes when the metal drags his entire body to the side, the heavy weight uncompromising.

“There we go, babe. Now, I’m going to finish fixing it, but now, at least, you won’t feel any more pain.”

 _He called me babe_ , Bucky thinks happily in his daze, tightening his hand on Tony’s thigh.

“You’re doing so well.”

Tony’s work on his arm disappears into a dream, so quick that he doesn’t even realise it’s happening. When awareness returns to him, a large, mechanical arm is waving in his face.

Bucky shouts in alarm and would’ve climbed up against the back of the sofa if it weren’t for his damnable arm.

Still, he makes an admirable effort.

“Bucky!” Tony says, urgently, his hand gripping Bucky’s flesh arm. “Bucky, it’s okay. It’s just DUM-E.”

Bucky takes short, sharp breaths, willing the panic to fade as quick as possible. “DUM-E?” he chokes out.

“Yeah, my bot? He’s like JARVIS, but much more rudimentary. He just sort of helps me around the workshops, grabs things for me, tries and fails to make me a smoothie when I’m down here for too long.” Tony gives the mechanical arm (or, Bucky supposes, DUM-E) a cross look. “He _isn’t_ supposed to be giving my guests a heart attack, though.”

DUM-E whines and the arm hangs down, as if he’s disappointed in himself.

Tony softens. “Okay, go away now; you have work to do, remember?”

DUM-E whirs excitedly and zooms off in the opposite direction.

Tony turns to him, giving him an apologetic look. “Sorry about him. I’d have warned you before if I thought you were going to have that kind of reaction.”

Bucky swallows hard and primly sits on the edge of the sofa. “S’okay.” He looks down at metal arm, the plating still open to reveal all the wiring and metal and other _dead_ things that make that part of him run. “Is it done?” he asks, carefully.

“Yeah, I just gotta activate the neurons and receptors again, and you should get sensation again.” Tony clears his throat. “You okay with that?”

Bucky nods, stiffly. “Yeah, yeah, m’okay with that.”

Tony takes a deep breath and slides his metal prod into the wiring. He twists, and Bucky seizes up, the sensation returning to his arm with a bang that he’s pretty sure only he can hear.

It doesn’t hurt, though, and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. The arm is still a little heavy, dragging him a little to the side, but it’s a weight that he can deal with, that he’s dealt with since it was attached, so he pushes through the frustration and the stretch to the smattering of scars on his shoulders and ribs.

“I’m sorry about the weight,” Tony apologises. “The pain, I could do something about, but the weight is part of the infrastructure for the prosthetic.”

Bucky nods. “Got it.”

“I could…” Tony hesitates, visibly. “If you wanted, I could make you a new one. A new prosthetic, I mean.”

Bucky jolts. “Huh?”

“I could make you a new prosthetic,” Tony repeats, reasonably.

Bucky frowns. “But why?”

Tony shrugs. “It’s what I do. When I can build something that makes the lives of the people close to me easier, I build. Pepper broke her wrist a couple of years back, so I made her a rudimentary AI to translate her voice commands into actual inputting on her computer and phone. And no offence, your prosthetic is shit. It shouldn’t be causing you this much trouble.”

Bucky laughs; it’s a harsh, brittle sound that makes even his ears hurt. “Yeah, well, the people who made it and put it on me weren’t exactly interested in my comfort.”

Tony chews on his lower lip and Bucky gives into the urge to free it from his teeth, the pad of his thumb lingering in the little dip. Tony’s eyes flutter close, his brown eyes going hot, before he shakes his head, focus returning.

“Do you, uh, do you want to talk about it?” Tony offers.

Bucky blinks, processing the words slowly.

“You don’t have to,” Tony says, in a low, rushed voice. “And if I’m overstepping, feel free to tell me to go fuck myself.”

Bucky’s lips twitch. “Honestly, doll, where _we’re_ at, I’d want to get involved in any fucking. Just sayin’.”

Tony laughs, a little quickly, like he’s surprised at Bucky’s words. “Duly noted,” he concedes. “But, uh, yeah, if you want to talk about it, the offer’s always there.”

“I’d like to,” Bucky blurts out before he second-guesses himself. “Talk about it, I mean.”

Tony’s eyes widen. “Oh, okay. Yeah, sure. Uh, go ahead.”

“Mind if I…” Bucky gestures to Tony’s hand, shyly.

Tony doesn’t miss a beat, reaching over and threading his fingers through Bucky’s.

“Uh, well, you know that Steve and I fought in Afghanistan together, yeah?”

Tony nods.

“Four tours, you know? Me and Stevie, side by side. The jackass signed up straight after we finished high school, and I had to follow him. He was a skinny little shit when we were growin’ up. Bulked up in high school, of course, but he had it set in his mind that he wanted t’serve.”

“You could’ve stayed behind,” Tony points out, quietly.

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s my job to protect him,” he says, steadily, his voice brooking no protest. “And I was so used to finishin’ his fights that I couldn’ help but go with him. Didn’ really mind, anyways, I was servin’ my country. So, yeah, four tours. But on my fourth tour, we were on a mission, like a special ops thing, but it went to hell. Landmine blew up right in front of me. Threw me away from the Commandos – that was our squad. When I woke up, they were carting me away.”

“Who was carting you away?” Tony asks, quietly, running his thumb over the dip in his knuckles.

“HYDRA.”

“I don’t…” Tony trails off, uncertainly.

“You don’t know the name?” Bucky guesses, raising his eyebrow. “Yeah, you wouldn’t. They usually keep it out of the papers when reportin’ on the war. They’re a terrorist organisation, I guess is the easiest way of explainin’ them. They originally operated in Europe, but they have bases in the Middle East. They’re just… fucked up, Tony. You don’t know the half of it.” He shakes his head. “They took me back to their base; I was wacked outta my gourd, but that’s just how they wanted me.”

“I’m kinda terrified to ask, but for what?”

“What terrorist groups like to do.” Bucky smiles, bitterly. “Kill.”

Tony jolts as if he hadn’t considered the possibility, and Bucky wonders if this is the moment that the genius gives up, kicks him out of the workshop, because no person in their sane mind would sit around having a conversation with someone who just admitted to murdering on behalf of a dangerous terrorist organisation.

Instead, Tony surprises him and squeezes his hand, shuffling closer to Bucky.

Bucky takes that as a sign to continue. “Two years I was with them. And I was good. The Winter Soldier, the New Fist of HYDRA, they called me. Everyone they wanted dead, I dealt with. I didn’t know what the fuck was goin’ on. All I knew was I had a mission and it had to be completed, or they’d fuck me up. And they were good at that, beating me and gettin’ me to do what they want. I forgot everything, you know? I forgot my name, my date of birth, Stevie, what my mother looked like, _everything_ ,” he chokes out, the truth coming out of him like seawater.

“How did…” Tony takes a deep breath. “How did you get away?”

“Steve and the Commandos raided the Hydra base where they were _storing_ me,” Bucky grits out. “They had this chamber sort of thing, like cryo. It kept me in stasis when they didn’t send me out on missions, kept whatever mind tricks they were using on me from fadin’ away. Anyway, Stevie found me. We fought, and I guess I was waiting for a reason to get out, to remember. I didn’t want him dead, and that was enough, I guess. I went with him, and it took me a while, but I started t’remember.”

Tony nods, slowly, processing the words. “Are you… are you okay now?” he asks, hesitantly. “I’m sorry; that’s a shit question to ask.”

“It’s okay. I’d ask, if it were the other way around,” Bucky reassures. “Uh, I’m good. I’ve been good for a year or two now. I still see a shrink on a semi-frequent basis. But sometimes, if I’m in a triggering situation, I become the Winter Soldier. He… keeps me alive, helps me deal with what happens after. Without him, I’m a good fighter; but _with_ him, I can do…” he shakes his head. “I can do so much more.”

“Like a heightened adrenaline state,” Tony says, quietly.

Bucky nods. “I guess you could call it that.” He pauses, biting his lower lip raw. “I just… I just want you to know that I wouldn’t have stepped foot in your house if I couldn’t control myself, Tony,” he insists. “I wouldn’t have come anywhere near ya if I was dangerous, to you or to anyone you cared about.”

“I know that,” Tony says, immediately, and his voice doesn’t waver.

“Are you sure? I mean, I wouldn’t blame ya if this changed things.” Bucky waves his hand in lieu of actually saying something concrete.

“Bucky,” Tony begins, gently. “I don’t think you’re dangerous to me. You don’t need to stress about me throwing you out on your arse for something evil and awful that happened to you. I would never do that.”

Something terrible and heavy loosens in Bucky’s chest and he visibly exhales. “Thanks,” he mutters. “That can’t have been easy.”

Tony snorts. “Believe me, that was one of the easiest things I’ve had to do in a long time.” He squeezes Bucky’s hand, deliberately, looking at him unbearably soft. “Now, about a new prosthetic,” he nudges, not-so-subtly.

Bucky laughs, a little surprised at how easy it comes out after the week he’s had.

“If you wanna do it, go right ahead.” He shrugs.

“So, you’re giving me the go ahead,” Tony clarifies. “Because, as far as I’m concerned, that thing’s a piece of junk and it’s literally giving me a migraine whenever I look at it.”

“Yes, Tony.” Bucky grins, amused. “I’m giving ya the go ahead, as long as this is what _you_ wanna do and I’m not tearin’ you away from anything.”

Tony waves off his concerns. “You let _me_ handle all the logistics. You just sit there and look pretty while I get things started.”

Bucky lets a lazy smile curve. “You think I’m pretty, doll?”

There’s just the slightest hint of red shading Tony’s cheekbones. “Shut up, Barnes,” he mutters. He clambers up to his feet. “Now, DUM-E, U, BUTTERFINGERS, look alive. We’ve got work to do.”

The bots cheer loudly and zoom towards them. Tony yelps and starts running, the bots hot on his heels, making Bucky roar with laughter. Finally, he ends up at his workstation and busies his hands on a keyboard, which has holograms bursting forth in an array of light, and the way that he looks in this workshop, surrounding by his bots and tech beyond Bucky’s wildest dreams, makes him look otherworldly beautiful, like something out of a steampunk novel.

Bucky falls in love with him just a little bit more.

* * *

 

**+1**

Bucky and Steve come to him with their new plan a week after Tony fits Bucky’s new prosthetic and has an epic bonfire on the cliff overlooking the ocean with his old one.

“No. No. Absolutely not,” Tony declares.

“Tony,” Steve begins with sigh – the sigh that Tony translates to mean _I equally adore and am incredibly exasperated by you_.

“No.”

“Doll-”

“No. Fuck no. Like hell. How many different ways do I need to say no before you two start getting it?” he demands. “Or do I need to start saying it in all the languages I know? Non, No, Nein, Niet, Nachair, La, Votch, Neyn, Lo, Nie, Nu, Nem, Nee, Ne, Ohi, Na. See where I’m going with this?”

“But Tony,” Bucky whines.

“No,” Tony snaps. “There’s no reason for me to learn how to fight. I’m good the way I am.”

“If something like Stane’s assassin happened again, and we weren’t there, it would be good for you to know how to protect yourself,” Steve cajoles.

Tony folds his arms across his chest. “I know how to protect myself,” he says, confidently. “Or did you forget how I shot her right between the eyes when she came at you two?”

“You had a gun, doll,” Bucky points out. “What’re you gonna do when you don’t have one, huh?”

Tony narrows his eyes. He wonders what his bodyguards would say if he told them what he was really capable of.

_No. It’ll be more fun to show them._

“Okay, fine,” he says, pleasantly. “I’ll agree to let you teach me how to fight, under certain conditions, of course.”

Steve and Bucky grin, but immediately exchange a careful and weighty look that has Tony raising an eyebrow.

“What?” he asks, warily. “What is it?”

“Well…” Bucky begins, the word strung-out like he doesn’t want to admit to something. “It wouldn’t be _us_ teaching you.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Don’t worry,” Steve hastens to reassure. “She’s amazing.”

“Who’s _she_? Who’s going to be my teacher?” Tony looks between the two of them, confused.

* * *

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he exclaims when he sees his teacher.

Natasha cocks her hips outward. “You got a problem with me, Stark?”

“No, but I got a problem with how they _tricked_ me,” he accuses, glaring at his bodyguards, who lean back against the wall of the gym, whistling to themselves, innocently.

“Technically, we didn’t trick you,” Bucky points out. “We did tell you that we wouldn’t be the ones teaching you.”

“Yeah, but you neglected to mention that it would be this devil spawn!”

“Hey!” Natasha snaps, offended.

“Oh, stop, you know what I mean,” he retorts.

Natasha grimaces but concedes the point, backing down and crossing her arms over her chest. Neither have them have forgotten the great Monopoly Disaster.

Knives should not be allowed when playing Monopoly. And in the interest of equal opportunity, DVD players should also not be rigged to bombard Monopoly players with discs.

“Tony, I know you’re probably angry, and I can understand why, but Natasha’s a great teacher,” Steve reassures. “We were just a little concerned about teaching you, ‘cause you don’t have any experience, and Natasha’s much better with first-timers.”

“That’s ‘cause she cuts out their vocal chords so they can’t complain,” Tony mutters under his breath.

“Excuse me?” Natasha asks, fixing him with a weighty look.

“You heard me,” Tony snaps. “There are still gouges in my wall. It’s like a Velociraptor went at ‘em.”

“I apologised, didn’t I?” Natasha says, defensively. “And I still have scars from your DVD player, thank you very much.”

“They’re not scars, you big baby. They were barely even scratches,” Tony scoffs. “Like little red marks that disappeared by the time you went home.”

“So? I was still injured!”

Tony narrows his eyes. “Not enough, if you ask me. And what about my emotional trauma from your serial killer demonstration?”

“Just… get in the goddamn ring, Stark.”

Tony sighs. “Fine.”

He climbs into the ring and faces off against Natasha, wearing a sports bra and leggings, with her dark red hair tied up in a high ponytail.

“Okay, so I’m going to try and punch you. Your job is to block me. Understood,” she says, her voice clipped.

Tony eyes Steve and Bucky quickly, before nodding. “Gotcha.”

“Good.”

Natasha strikes out with a closed fist, but Tony blocks her with unflinching accuracy just before it comes into contact with his chest.

Natasha’s face flickers with surprise.

“Good. That was good,” she murmurs. “Now, again.”

He blocks her, again and again, until she starts varying the pace and location of her blows. But every single time, he stops her fist from making contact with him.

“You’ve been holding out on us, Stark,” Natasha drawls, pulling back, her hair curling around her face with sweat.

Tony shrugs and stares at Bucky and Steve, who are practically gripping the ring ropes with their hands, a flush on their ears and lips pressed into a thin line.

“It was your fault for underestimating me,” he points out.

“Uh, Tony,” Bucky begins, inching closer.

“Hush, Yasha,” Natasha interjects, her eyes narrowed. “I am not done here yet.”

“Bring it on, Mother Russia,” he taunts, swerving as her heel comes down on him in a graceful arch.

“For the last fucking time, I am not a KGB assassin,” Natasha snaps, huffing.

“That’s _exactly_ what a KGB assassin would say.”

“Just… shut up and fight,” she mutters, as she kicks out at him.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“How-how the fuck do you know how to fight like this?”

“I was a fast learner with a lot of incentive,” Tony grunts as he blocks one of Natasha’s blows to his abdomen.

“Who taught you?” Natasha asks, rearing back, her face alight with sweat and curiosity.

“My cook,” Tony says, simply.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Your cook?” she says, sceptically.

“Yeah,” he replies, a little defensive. “You got a problem with cooks being badasses?”

“Not at all.” Natasha shrugs. “It’s just… an exceptional story.”

“She was an exceptional woman,” Tony murmurs, remembering Ana Jarvis with great fondness.

“I’ll bet.” Natasha steps back. “I want to know how much you know. Yasha, Steve, get up here.”

“What?” Tony blinks, looking away.

Steve and Bucky look equally nervous.

“Yasha, Steve, come up here,” Natasha repeats, pleasantly.

“Uh, Tasha, you sure about this?” Steve says, slowly.

“Yes, of course I am. Come up here.”

Tony watches as Steve and Bucky look at each other but inevitably climb into the ring.

Natasha leans in. “Take them down,” she urges.

Tony looks at her, incredulously. “Are you insane? I’m not fighting _them_!”

Natasha crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re capable of blocking _me_ , Stark. Let’s see how you do on the Army Brats over here.”

Bucky takes a step back. “I’m not really comfortable with this,” he says, hesitantly.

Tony rounds on him. “Oh? You were comfortable when you decided it would be good for me to know how to protect myself,” he mocks.

“Clearly, we made a mistake,” Bucky retorts.

“Yeah, you got that right.” Tony snaps his fingers. “Now, come on. Get a grip.”

Steve and Bucky exchange terrified looks of their own and it makes Tony roll his eyes.

“You two are such babies,” he says, scathingly.

Before they can even comprehend what’s going on or begin to retaliate in any way, Tony is already lunging at them, climbing up Steve’s gigantic body and wrapping his thighs around his neck, locking them tight. He throws his arms around Bucky’s neck and twists his body in a particular way, landing back on the ring with his feet firmly on the ground, while Bucky and Steve lie on their backs, groaning.

“Okay, okay,” Bucky wheezes, coming up onto his elbows. “No more fight club. Tony, we’re going.”

“What?” Tony blinks. “What d’you mean? Where are we going?”

“Uh, we’ll explain later,” Steve says, shooting Natasha a shifty look. “Let’s go.”

“No. Where are we going?” Tony asks, stubbornly.

He absolutely does _not_ shriek when Bucky jumps to his feet and grabs Tony by the waist, tossing him over his shoulder. He takes long, heavy strides in the direction of Tony’s bedroom, which Tony realises within moments, even with the blood quickly rushing to his head.

“Excuse me!”

Steve shushes him, bringing up the rear. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

“Oh, my God. This is so fucking creepy,” Tony moans.

Bucky snorts. “Oh, please. Don’t pretend like you didn’t know this was going to happen.”

“Well, yeah,” Tony admits, grudgingly. “But I thought you might ask me out on a date, or-or to coffee. I would like it on record that this is not the appropriate way to ask someone out on a date,” he exclaims, a little hysterically.

Steve grimaces. “Well, we’re a little impatient, if you’re okay with it.”

“Oh, well, if I’m okay with it,” Tony says, sarcastically.

Bucky stills, momentarily, and Tony just sways there, upside-down. “ _Are_ you okay with it?”

Tony takes a deep breath. “You did just see the way I practically beat the shit out of you, right?” he grumbles.

“Yep, sure did. It was hot as fuck.”

“I suppose that’s good to hear.”

Bucky kicks open Tony’s bedroom door and drops him onto the mattress unceremoniously.

Tony leans back on his palms. “So…” he drawls. “Where do we go from here?”

Bucky shrugs. “Wherever you want to go.”

“And if I said I wanted you to kiss me, what would you say?” Tony asks, casually.

Bucky and Steve look at each other.

“You, as in singular or plural?” Steve clarifies.

“Plural.” Tony licks his lips. “Yeah, plural. Definitely plural.”

“In any particular order or…?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Tony mutters and gets onto his knees on top of the bed so that he can grab Steve, and then Bucky, by the shoulders and kiss both of them hard. “Wait, wait.” he gasps, pulling away sharply. “Is having sex right now the smartest thing we could do in these circumstances?”

“Probably not,” Bucky says, casually. “But d’you care?”

Tony runs his eyes over Bucky and Steve and decides, vehemently, that he does not care.

Nope, not one bit.

He drags Steve on top of him all over again and plunders his mouth like an octopus. He makes a muffled noise, processing the situation for a second time, and pulls away again, yet another thought occurring to him.

“You two are okay with this?” he pants, his voice a little thin and high with breathlessness.

Bucky and Steve exchange a look.

“We talked,” Bucky explains. “We decided that we could never be jealous of each other, not really; we’ve known each other and been through too much to let something that get in the way. And we love you, Tony. That means more to us.”

“Oh, well, if _you_ talked,” Tony says, sarcastically. “Did neither of you think to mention this to me at all?”

Steve stares down at him, incredulously. “Do you care right now?”

“Well, no,” Tony admits, grudgingly. He points a finger at them. “But we’re tabling this discussion.”

“Yes, boss,” Bucky says, cheekily, making an adorably high-pitched noise when Tony managed to pinch the inside of his thighs, hard enough that he can clearly feel it through his jeans.

“Okay, no more talking,” Tony declares. “More kissing. Kissing works.”

Bucky laughs and pulls him in for a deep, filthy kiss that makes heat curl low in Tony’s stomach, his cock hardening in his sweats. Tony feels the mattress dip underneath him as Steve crawls on top and behind him, sliding his hands under his shirt and sweats, leaving a trail of fire in his wake that made goosebumps pimple.

“Shit,” he mutters, clutching at Bucky’s hair.

He pulls away, for the third time.

“Tony, I swear to God, if you keep doing that-”

“I love you,” he blurts out.

Bucky and Steve’s face softens like pillow fluff.

“Yeah, you, uh, said you loved me. Both of you. So, this is me, uh, responding. I love you too. Both of you,” he says, awkwardly.

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “Tony, I’m going to topple you onto the mattress. Is that okay?”

Tony’s eyes widen. “Oh!” he exclaims. He blinks. “Yeah, that’s cool. Go right ahead.”

“Good.” Steve smiles.

Even though he knew it was coming, it literally steals the breath out of Tony’s long, his voice coming out as a shrill squeak, when Steve pulls his legs out from underneath him and topples him down onto the mattress.

Tony can’t help but stare at the ripple of muscle under his skin.

_Wow, I really hit the jackpot on this one._

He takes the initiative this time and lunges upwards until he’s parting his mouth over Steve’s eagerly, threading fingers through his hair.

“How do you want to do this?” he mutters.

“How do _you_ want to do this?” Steve retorts, with a smirk.

Tony groans. “Don’t give me _options_ ,” he complains.

“Well, I had one idea,” Bucky growls against his ear, kneeling beside him, as he runs a hot palm down his chest and palms his hard cock in his sweatpants.

“Oh?” Tony swallows hard. “I’m all ears.”

“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to fuck you stupid, while you suck Stevie here off. How does that sound, doll?”

Tony whines and jerks high into Bucky’s grip, his hand tightening in Steve’s hair, who’s busy sucking a dark bruise into the skin just below his collarbone.

“Fucking hell, how do you come up with these things?”

“I have a very active imagination.” Bucky shrugs. “As long as Steve’s okay with it.”

“I got no complaints,” Steve agrees promptly. “Plus, he’s a perv, so he’s always got the good ideas.”

Tony laughs, but it breaks off into a tortured moan when Bucky slides his flesh hand into his sweatpants and _finally_ wraps it around the base of his cock.

“Even if I’m a perv,” Bucky hums. “I’ll treat you good, doll, won’t I?”

_Oh, yes, you will._

Tony exhales. “If you want to do _anything_ with me at this point, I suggest you get my clothes off. Pronto.”

Steve chuckles. “I’m good with that. You, Bucky?”

Bucky snorts and looks down at the way his pants tent at the crotch. “Does it look like I’m objectin’?”

Tony mutters something under his breath and rolls onto his knees, removing his tank, sweats and boxers briskly and shoving them off the bed.

“If I wait for you two, I might just re-virginise,” he snarks. He throws himself back onto the bed. “Have at it.” He gestures to himself, practically preening when those big puppy eyes that both of them somehow have settle on his naked body and just _fixate_ like he’s a work of art. “Okay, while I appreciate the appreciation, there’s only an extent to which I will be okay with this before I start throwing a hissy fit. I wasn’t fucking around when I said _have at it_.”

Steve and Bucky both blink and then snap to attention, much to Tony’s amusement.

“Right!”

“Yeah, let’s just…”

Tony rolls his eyes. “You two are adorable. So fucking adorable. But if you don’t mind, I’d really like to get fucked. Preferably by the two of you. But if you’re not up to it, or you’ve changed your mind, I’ve got a vibrator that I made myself, and it works like a dream. So, please, for the love of God, make your decision.”

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re touchy,” Bucky growls.

Tony watches with no small amount of admiration as Bucky removes all of his clothes, revealing miles and miles of tanned, muscled skin that he’d love to put his mouth on. The show turns equally interesting when Steve joins the strip show, adding his own beautiful, naked body to what Tony can see and obsess over.

Tony finally makes a sound of agreement when Bucky settles between his thighs, while Steve lifts him onto his lap. Bucky digs his thumbs into the divots at the base of his spine and starts them into a slow grind that makes him arch, while Steve holds his wrist down against the mattress, draped over his lap as he is.

“You got lube somewhere, babe?” Bucky pants against his chest, teeth tugging at a nipple.

“In the drawer. Condoms are there too,” Tony murmurs, while Steve kisses him slowly, stroking his abdomen lazily, his thighs, holding him like he’s something precious.

The next thing he knows, lubed fingers are pressing into him, rubbing at his prostate until that thick, pervasive feeling stretches out through his entire body, like he’s floating on some sort of cloud.

“You good, honey?”

“Yep,” he breathes, tilting his head and licking at Steve’s cock.

Steve gasps, a loud, heavy thing that makes Tony smile, and a hand falls into his hair, stroking gently.

“You sure, Tony?” he asks, slowly.

“Give me your cock, Steven.”

Steve moans, absently stroking himself, and helps lift Tony’s head up so that open his mouth over his cock, halfway, his tongue flattening over the base.

The heavy, solid pressure of Bucky’s cock slides through, and even with Tony’s experience, there’s a dull ache there, from between his legs all the way up to the base of his spine. It takes a while, and a lot of steady, slow thrusting before Tony feels comfortable enough to let Bucky know that it’s safe to go a little harder, a little firmer.

Steve’s hand tightens in his hair and he cants his hips forward.

“Tony, I’m-I’m going to come. Should I – _fuck_ – should I pull out, honey?”

Tony gasps, pulling away. “No, no. I want to swallow.”

Steve whines and his hips thrust forward of their own accord. A stream of pre-come rubs against Tony’s cheek, but he doesn’t care – all of this is so fucking hot, and he can’t get his mind off of how both Bucky and Steve feel inside him. Tony manages to get an arm around Steve’s waist and pulls him closer, so that he can start sucking him off again, pressing his tongue against the cluster of nerves just below the head on the underside and rubbing in firm, slow circles.

He works his throat muscles at full throttle, mimicking swallowing, and Steve shouts, coming hard. Once he’s done, once Tony can feel his spent cock stop twitching between his lips, he pulls away, wiping his mouth.

“Just a quick PSA, please don’t kiss me until you’ve rinsed with mouthwash. Like fifty goddamn times,” Bucky declares, snapping his hips forward.

Tony laughs, which abruptly breaks off into a strung-out noise of pleasure. “I find it very hard to believe – _fucking hell, Barnes, you are so fucking good at this_ – that the two of you have _never_ bumped uglies – _holy shit, never stop doing that_.”

Steve pulls away from the deep, filthy kiss he’s currently pressing against Tony’s mouth. “Actually, no, we’ve never actually had sex.”

“Huh,” Tony exhales.

Anything else that Tony was going to say completely fades out of his mind, which is definitely a first for him, because Bucky finally takes mercy on him, after practically edging him the entire time he got his cock inside Tony, and starts jerking him off. It takes around ten seconds and Tony’s so focused on the image of Bucky’s tanned hand on his tanned cock that he stops breathing, because it becomes easier to hit that edge.

He tumbles over and sees stars behind his eyelids, as he lunges forward, clutching at whatever he can. Thankfully, Steve’s right there and lends a hand, threading their fingers together and pinning them against the mattress to ground him. He’s tensing and clenching and convulsing with every single moment that passes, and when he finally comes to, Bucky’s in the midst of coming as well, his entire body shaking.

His body collapses on top of Tony and rolls off because Tony cracks his ribs open trying to breathe or something. 

He breathes a sigh of relief.

“Wow. That was… _good_. That was good.”

“Just good,” Steve drawls, settling on the other side of Tony, a sheen of sweat on his skin.

“I am…” Tony takes a deep breath, his heart and lungs only just starting to work like normal. “… uncharacteristically non-hyper-verbal right now. Wow. That is _new_ for me. Like really, really new for me. Wow. You two are very good at this.” He wags his fingers.

Bucky folds his arms behind his head. “Well, we had lessons.”

Tony raises his head. “ _Did_ you?” he asks, very curiously.

He’s coming up with all sorts of scenarios – like a middle-aged prostitute in Bangkok with a desire to see everyone benefitting from amazing orgasms.

“No. No, we did _not_ get lessons.” Steve glowers at Bucky, nudging him not-so-lightly with his foot. “We’re just… naturally good at this.”

“I can buy that.”

Steve balances himself on his elbow. “You know we can’t be your bodyguards anymore.”

“What? Why?” Tony demands.

“We just slept with you.”

“So?”

“It would be a conflict of interest if we were dating you _and_ we were your bodyguards at the same time,” Steve says, patiently.

“Okay, first of all, if I fired you two and hired new bodyguards, you two would just sit around all day pointing out how much and in exactly which ways they were absurdly incompetent and couldn’t do the job as well as you two. I’m not putting some poor shmuck through that. Second of all, and I can’t stress this enough, _I don’t actually want a bodyguard_.”

Bucky snorts. “That’s what you said about us.”

Tony stares at him, unimpressed.

Bucky promptly turns to the other side and starts fake-snoring.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Look, contrary to popular belief, I am very much in charge of my own life and I don’t _want_ a fucking bodyguard, but if I have to settle for one, I’m settling for you two. Understood? Great. Good talk. Now, sleep time.” He blinks. “Hey, did Natasha actually leave after you two dragged me away like a bunch of cavemen?”

“No, she’s currently eating everything in your fridge.”

“How do you know?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “That’s what she _always_ does.”

“Should we go down?” Tony asks, slowly. “We were pretty rude earlier.”

“NO,” comes the collective shout from both Steve and Bucky.

“First rule of everything Natasha: do not tear that woman from her food. She absolutely _will_ garrotte you, no matter how pretty you are,” Bucky says, steadily.

Steve rubs his throat. “She’s actually pretty vicious with that thing. Second rule: she is very curious. About _everything_ , including what we’re like in bed. She will grill you for details. _Explicit_ details.” His face breaks out in a sunshine smile that instantly makes Tony suspicious. “You said sleep time, right? Let’s sleep.”

Tony’s still wondering why they don’t want him talking to Natasha about their sex life, but lies down on top of the mattress at Steve’s urging nonetheless.

Within moments, his eyes snap open. “Oh, shit.”

Bucky looks up. “What?”

“Vibrating fingers.” Tony hurtles off the bed.

“What are you talking about?” Steve rubs a hand over his eyes. “Why are you getting _out_ of bed?”

“Vibrating fingers.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Vibrating fingers?”

Tony rounds on them at the door. “Vibrating fingers,” he insists.

Bucky and Steve exchange a look.

“Tony, are you feelin’ okay?”

“I’m fine,” Tony says, affronted.

Bucky and Steve stare at him, their eyebrows somewhere around their hairline at the level of incredulity they’d reached.

“Shut up. Just stay here, okay. Vibrating fingers.”

“Wait, Tony-” Steve startles.

“Where are you goin’?” Bucky calls after him.

“VIBRATING FINGERS.”

**Author's Note:**

> One thing I should probably add is that the whole Ana teaching Tony how to kick arse really came from a headcanon of mine where Ana is a runaway Black Widow who started working in a hotel tailor shop when Jarvis found her.


End file.
